


Notions

by sallysorrell



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Adopted Children, Changing Tenses, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Novel, Orphans, POV First Person, Polyamory, Post-Canon Cardassia, Recovery, Repetitive Epic, Romance, Slow Build, Thematic Stream of Consciousness, Weddings, because since when has Garak been a reliable narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 71,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: Notions: beliefs; impulses; and items used to finish sewing projects.True, Cardassia needed a tailor.  It needed to be carefully measured and modified, rebuilt from scraps into something functional.  But now, with this done, it needs more than Garak alone can provide.It needs guidance as much as patience, affection as much as order.What it needs now is a doctor.  Garak knows the feeling all too well; he never stopped writing to Doctor Bashir, and he never will.  Doctor Parmak joins this desperate campaign as well.Between all the memories and feelings this process unravels, Garak realizes there are a lot of relationships he needs to tie up.A sequel to Andrew Robinson's "A Stitch in Time."





	1. Silences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I believe this was the point in my life at which I began living on that inescapable feeling, that uneasy adrenaline churning in my stomach, making decisions that would preserve it instead of remove or compound it."

The opportunity One Charaban offered me remained an anchor in my mind well into the next day, grounding me and guiding me silently through my coursework.  Stronger than that was the recollection of the handshake, the eye contact, the sudden and overwhelming intimacy of the moment which nearly drained the very words from my throat.  

I knew immediately that I wanted to recruit Eight for Charaban’s purpose, regardless of what the strategy would be.  He was well suited to physical attacks, and ideal in keeping our developing plans a secret.  I only needed to confirm I could trust him.

Of course I could.  I knew that already.  Part of me desperately wanted to disguise further, deeper encounters with him as tests of his integrity.  

It was customary for us to sit beside each other at meals around the community table.  Our unit sat in two rows, with odd numbered designations on one side and evens on the other.  The evening after Charaban’s proposal, I was slow in taking my place beside Eight.

News of the Competition had turned our supposed collectivism into a sticky series of betrayals and constant suspicion.  At past meals, I always made a point to offer both water and nectar to Six to bolster his health.  Tonight he outright refused, until Eight took the vial of nectar from me, sipped it himself - presumably to demonstrate that I had not tampered with it - and passed it down to the seat beside him.  

Our eyes met for a moment, Eight’s and mine.  He flattened his lips, curling them in against each other to convey apologetic confusion.  The exchange was not discussed.

Discussions rarely occurred at these late meals.  I think we were all afraid of revealing our positions and undoing the trust between us which now existed only as pretense.

I remained still after my plate was empty and most of the others had departed.  Six passed the empty vial back to Eight, who set it on the rim of my dish without a word.  I caught his wrist before he could pull away, and I forced our eyes to meet.  I am not even sure what this said to him, my hopeless expression and my eyes on the brink of frustrated tears, but I could see him agree.  He barely nodded his head, and reached down to unclamp my hand from his wrist.

It was now my job to decide what Eight had agreed to.  What I had proposed.  I hoped I had not offered too much.

We went inside together when the siren signaled our return to quarters.  Indecisively, I sat on my bed, waiting for the others to fall asleep.  I peered around the divider to check on Nine, my only obstacle to reaching Eight.  He did not seem to see me, because no remark was made to expose me.  I rushed to preserve this gift of an opportunity, not even bothering to finish dressing in my robes before slinking across the threshold.

When I reached the foot of Eight’s bed, leaning nervously against the divider, he was sitting up and staring at me expectantly.  Maybe this arrangement was exactly what my eyes managed to convey.  We blinked at each other.  He smoothed one hand over the exposed mattress then held up his allotted blanket, inviting me in.

I did my best to join him quietly.  As desperately as I ached to speak, I found myself suddenly more starved for his touch.  My shivering was nearly silent, and he responded by gently rolling the blanket up to my shoulders.  His hands dove beneath it and remained there.  I was suddenly aware of the scratchy noises the blanket made, and I risked being found if I added my voice to the equation.  I believe this was the point in my life at which I began _living_ on that inescapable feeling, that uneasy adrenaline churning in my stomach, making decisions that would preserve it instead of remove or compound it.

Eight smiled at me, eyes wide in the darkness.  I trusted him not to speak, and would force myself to learn the tactics from him.

I felt his hands shifting beneath the blanket until they met my chest.  I understand the practice of wearing a shirt in company meets the standards for modesty in most human cultures, but it has always served a more practical purpose for Cardassians.  Even a thin fabric will protect the vulnerable skin from irritation or injury.  With Eight, I knew I had nothing to fear.

My absurd shivering became briefly audible when he splayed out his fingers across my exposed skin.  He narrowed his eyes but parted his lips, ready to threaten to quiet me with a kiss.  Or so my feverish imagination told me.

He pulled his fingers together, then spread them again.  He scooted his face closer to mine, nudging me with his forehead so the ridges above our eyes touched.  What was he asking for?

I cleared my throat.  Eight was quick in adding a cough of his own to disguise this, in case any of our mates were awake enough to otherwise match the noises to their makers.

Another nudge, another pulse of his fingers.

I nodded and moved my hands to his chest.  I had found that acting as a mirror allowed me a better chance of understand my partners in conversation and in combat.  I assumed the same could become true for silence, helping me work through the meaning I would intend, if on the other side.

But Eight did not allow this.  He shut his eyes, denying me the contact I craved, effectively saying _no_.  I had not made the right move.

His hands crept toward the base of my shoulders, until I could feel the warmth of them radiating against my sensitive ridges.  I stifled another set of shivers.

He pressed his fingers into my skin one at a time, nodding to accent each touch.  Of course, he was counting them.   _Ten!_

Now I was eager to reply, and curled my fingers over his shoulders, leaving my thumbs to grace the recessed skin between his collar bones.  I pressed each of my fingertips down in turn, to respond with his designation.

At first, I thought this conversation was too simple to be helpful.  It was an introduction to a new language, which Eight was patient in teaching me, but how did it add to our exchange from dinner? 

Effectively, all we had done was introduce ourselves to each other.  As with other disciplines, I found I would have to fake my fluency.

I moved one hand up the side of his neck, the side free of the pillow.  I stroked the scales and did my best to look inquisitive.

I wasn’t sure whether I should marvel at his silence - as I was certain a similar touch would’ve elicited even a small grateful sound from me - or be offended by it.  He did not shut his eyes, nor did he make a move to stop or starve me; his hands remained against my chest, threatening to meld together between cold sweat.

I knew I would need to return to my own bed before the morning signal if I was to keep Eight’s reputation safe.  I was learning not to be concerned with my own.  Slowly.

 _Ten_ , his fingers said again.  Then his hands drifted down, guiding my blood lower with them.  I told myself not to be disappointed when he removed them, just above the ridges that lined my hips.  I understood this as a kind suggestion to leave him, and allow the conversation to continue at another time.  I hoped I was right.

The next morning, he caught _my_ arm as we walked to the table for our meal.  His lips brushed the curved base of my ear as he spoke.

“I trust you,” he said softly, and I was confident it was true.

⟡⟡⟡

I’m not sure I’ve ever slept in a truly comfortable bed.  I was reminded of this encounter with Eight by Doctor Parmak when he visited me one evening.  

The door to the house was open - as it usually was - and he stepped over the pile of rubble that had formed in the entryway.  Foolishly, I had made a fire in the hearth the previous night, and that was as far as I could scoop the ashes without inhaling any more of them.  They would only billow back inside, and the problem would repeat itself.  I hoped Parmak had come to lecture me, because I was in a weakened and depressive state, and a list of my wrongdoings was about all I could agree to.

He is a lot like you, Doctor.  He is content to educate me even if he knows I will not listen, and he often knows my needs better than I do.  I have become so bad at expressing desires, even differentiating them from needs in the first place.  He is calm and patient and I cherish his presence.  It is, perhaps, the one thing I am sure I need.

Parmak stepped delicately into the main room, and found me slumped forward in Tain’s chair.  I had long given up on the pills he offered me, as the resulting visions outweighed the interspersed moments of peace.  Instead, he summoned me to the bedroom.  I knew better than to argue, and followed with heavy steps.

“How have you been sleeping?” he asked me, throwing off his coat and pushing up his sleeves.

I laughed.

“I can’t tell when I _am_ , anymore, so the answer may be ‘never.’”

Parmak gave a gentle and dismissive sigh.  He stood with his legs against the bedframe, patting the mattress with one hand.  All I noticed was the new layer of dust this awakened, drifting up like a radioactive cloud.  He rarely met my eyes, but instead would follow them to their target.  He caught me looking at the dust and quickly shed the blanket, dropping it so it fell into a pile on the floor.  He patted the mattress again, and the result was cleaner.

“I have nothing else to offer you,” he said, as I tried to make myself comfortable.  I assumed he was talking about the medication.  

“It’s not like I miss the sleep itself,” I explained quietly.  

He knew it was restless and fueled by nightmares, driving me off cliffs until I awoke again.  I told him of everything I had seen.  Faceless bodies in burning piles, contrasted by the defined faces of orphans begging for shelter in my home.  The door is always open and I invite them in, but they stand in the frame howling.  I am only able to help them at the Med Center.  Your face is among them sometimes, Doctor, accented by bubbling tubes that seem to bloom from your veins.  Your eyes are always closed.   _No, Garak_ , you’re saying to me, and you do not have enough breath left in your body to elaborate.  I feel selfish for needing this from you.

Parmak waited until I settled along the middle of the mattress, into the indentation made by many years of solitary use, to join me.  He hooked one arm over my shoulder then drew himself up against me.

“I understand,” he said.  

No false promises of fixing the problem.  Like you again, Doctor.  He acknowledged my pain and said he would work through it with me.  I wanted to cry, but I knew how quickly the sensitive Parmak would join me.  I would hate to become the cause of his suffering, especially if he did not understand it.  I had forced that on him once already.

He turned me to face him, keeping the grip tight around my shoulder.  He met my eyes for a moment, before rushing to blink.  It was as if he expected it, forcing me to look at him, and knew it would relax me more than it would unsettle him.  Why are you doctors so recklessly selfless?

“Just try to breathe slowly, Elim,” he told me.  My breath was too quick, even as I nodded.  Hopeless.

“You’ll forget I’m here,” Parmak continued.  “I’ll breathe with you, exactly the same.”

He spoke more calmly than either of us ever had to the orphans.  It was not like that at all.  That was always a pretend sort of calm, an engineered virus meant to infect whoever was listening.  This was genuine, and he wanted it to move mutually between us.  A prescription, a cure.

He guided my head so that it ended up nestled against his shoulder.  I thought again of how selfless he was, as I could see the scales there were in the process of shedding and regrowing, and that any contact with them was more likely to result in pain than in pleasure.  I turned away, ensuring not even my breath disturbed them.  He would have to feel this in another way, in order to synchronize.

“Am I too close?” he asked.  He could not mistake my movement as anything but nervous, like I was trying to struggle free of his arms.

My heart led me to say ‘no’ even though I’m sure the shaking was an effect of anxiety.  I focused on the size of the room around me, and reminded myself that I was in the safest of places.  I needed to occupy my arm, the one trapped between us, to keep my fear at bay.  I set it on his chest, and he acknowledged this with a nod.

“Good,” he said, “you’ll feel my breaths, and you’ll match them.”

I hoped I sounded sweet and genuine when I said, ‘Doctor,’ as if I was saying it to you.  I’m not sure what else I meant by doing so.

“Shh,” Parmak insisted.  He formed the sound against my cheek.  

I felt his fingers in my hair, stroking it, pulling pieces of it up before gently setting them back down and repeating the process.  I resisted the nervous urge to shake beneath the weight of this intimacy.  I knew I could trust Parmak, I knew his intentions were nothing short of wholeheartedly pure, and I knew he wanted me to feel safe with him.  Not nervous.

He inhaled slowly, and asked if I would prefer him to be silent or to tell me a story.  It was exactly the offer he would make to a child, to anyone unable to keep up with the customary Cardassian practice of a friendly argument.  I would love a simple story.  I would not need to speak, I would only need to breathe.

“Silence,” I said.  I knew I could not resist the urge to engage him, otherwise, “I want to… to focus on you.”

I thought I felt him smiling, lips still against my skin.  

We lay together in silence, with Parmak presumably smiling and insistently stroking my hair, and me trembling hopelessly despite all his hard work.

I wondered if he would break the agreement and speak.  If he would remind me that he was still there with me, that we were both very much alive and safe and together.

“Shh,” was all he said.  

He rubbed my shoulder with the hand that rested there, and continued the lattice through my hair with the other.  I felt it gradually relaxing, beginning to curl around his fingers.  I could not recall the last time my hair had been anything but controlled and out of the way.  My only memories were of my mother, drawing my hair back behind my ears and powdering it into place, insisting one day it would learn to behave on its own.  She said the same thing about me, with a smirk.

Now I longed to dissolve into my satiated shame.  But Parmak was quick to remind me that nothing here was shameful.  

He spoke.

“I care about you, Elim,” he said.  “I want you to be well.”

I sighed more loudly than necessary, trying to convey that I wanted another chance at controlling my breathing.  At sleeping.  At letting Parmak know that I valued him, as well.  How was I supposed to demonstrate my concern if I refused to follow even his simple suggestions?  At least he did not follow them either.

Is it clear how much I miss you, Doctor?  

While I’m sure that I separately and wholly love Parmak, it’s only because he perfectly mends the tears caused by your absence.  Perfectly.

Finally, I managed to inhale for the same duration as Parmak.  He praised me, pressing his hand firmly against the back of my head and forcing my lips to his shoulder.  We exhaled together, and I felt him trace cascading circles down my back.  

“Until you are sleeping,” he insisted, “just like this.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sleep, as I would risk missing the full effect of Parmak’s attention.  While he had done me some good, it was not in the way he originally intended.

“You’ve… done more than enough, Doctor.  I--” I was again thinking of you.

“Just like this,” he repeated, as I gave up on finishing my thought.  I was sure my hair was becoming wet between his fingers, by now, after all the shaking and sweating I had managed to do.  He was patient.

For the sweet doctor’s benefit, I kept my eyes closed and refused to speak.  We continued breathing in unison, slowly and with increasing depth, until he must have assumed I was asleep.

I hated to lie to him as much I hated to lose him.  But I felt him slide away from me, and I heard him reach for the blanket and shake it free of at least one coating of dust.  He set this carefully over me, then tucked it underneath me, matching it as closely to the outline of my body as he could.

I made the mistake of opening my eyes when I felt his fingers against my chest, patting down the blanket.  His expression was disapproving, but not at all surprised.

“Until you fall asleep,” he reminded me, and he joined me again on the mattress. “We’ll try a story this time.”

He told me a fantastic tale, Doctor, about how you were on your way at that very moment to join us.  He said he had written to you about the orphans, about the lack of care, about how desperately your empathy and expertise were needed by every survivor on the surface.  He claimed you were welcome in ‘our home’ - he used those words exactly.  

I had never been more sure of my love for you, or for Doctor Parmak.  

I felt myself surrender to sleep with his hand patting my back, as he told me all about our reunion and our new life together.  


	2. Offers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...Like two more communiques would push Bashir over his self-satisfied edge and get him down here to practice real medicine. Like another set of charming, meandering words from the pen of a Cardassian would change his mind about anything."

All of my suspicions arrived much too late, following my expulsion from Bamarren.  

The first and most staticky was the possibility Nine had heard us and leveraged our intimacy into his promotion.  He heard Eight and I every night we crept into each other’s bunks, and he delighted in sitting silently and recording the memories to recount to One Charaban, his cousin.  Disgraceful, that family would betray friendship.  That forged unity was suddenly secondary to mere shared blood.  If I had known more at the time, I would’ve warned him that family isn’t all it’s said to be, and that the debts are never fairly settled.

The next was that Eight must have known before I did.  He knew there was no chance of me remaining in the program, let alone being promoted to a more attractive designation.  I maintained that he deserved a higher rank as much, if not more, than I did.  He always gave a shy laugh to these claims, and would instead let his hands linger over my forearms when we walked together around the perimeter.  We worked together often on repairing the fences, to the point I dreamed of staying on the inside of them, and was crushed when I learned this could not be true.  

I should have read the signs of it, as I said I was so adept at doing.  Eight was immediately more talkative and more supportive of me.  He talked at length about my bravery over meals, until no one took up a contrary position.  But it was not his victory so much as their surrender.

I remember him visiting _my_ bed, the night before what would be my final presentation.  I chose not to go to him, as I was occupied by dreams of next year, where we offered either variation of One and Two designations, and could spend as much time together as we wanted without interference or suspicion.  It was not so lofty of a goal, but it suddenly felt that way, when his cold fingers stroked the lowest scales of my neck.  

“No matter what happens,” he mumbled, “I will never forget you.”

⟡⟡⟡

Odo tried to say things like this to me, but the sentiment often escaped him, oozing out like it was only accessible to his true form.  

I was considering your proposal about the holosuites, Doctor, when the Constable came by my shop.  It was late morning, but I had not yet sent the command to unlock the door sensors.  He found himself peering into the camera I’d set above them, and threatening to knock with his free hand.  The other was folded behind his back, as usual, but it also seemed to be holding something, slung lower under its weight.

I hurried to stand and admit him.  He followed me to my work-table and then set down the metallic box he was carrying, nodding toward it as he spoke.

“I wasn’t sure when you were leaving,” he said, “but I wanted to give you this.  A sort of going away present, if I’ve learned anything from humanoids.”

“I won’t be leaving for some time,” I drawled.  I wasn’t sure if I would be given any control over my departure date, and found my own compulsive vagueness reassuring.  I half expected to be shepherded onto the next arriving warship, without a clear destination or intention.  I deserved a punishment as aimlessly hostile as I had become lately.

“It’s, er,” Odo never had much success in redirecting discomfort, but that didn’t stop him trying, “it’s _real_.”

“Real,” I repeated.

“Mm,” he grunted affirmatively, “real.”

It seemed the gift was something embarrassing to the constable.  I considered whether I should remain confused until he left, or if I should open it in his presence to put us both out of our misery.  I knew the latter was often practiced by humans, but I wasn’t sure how much of this tradition applied to either of us.  It was nice, really, to be alone with someone in this way.  Truly and completely alone.

“You can open it,” Odo said.  I was relieved to do so.

It was a slice of something, with a vaguely sweet and earthy scent.  My term for it would’ve been equivalent to ‘pudding’ had Odo not prematurely corrected me.

“Carrot cake,” he explained.  “I borrowed the recipe from Captain Sisko’s collection.”

“How very thoughtful of you.”

“Mm,” he said again, as if he wasn’t sure this was true.  Not my words, but his intentions.  After a moment, he seemed to decide that they were, because he added, “it _did_ take me several attempts.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

“You’ll have to let me know.  I was told it pairs well with tea.”

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak gradually became a fixture of the household.  He moved so frequently around the monuments of rubble in the front room that his dance became a thing of habit.  He would round the corner to the dining table and find me there alone, staring at an empty plate, waiting for him or anything else that could divert me.

I never thought to ask why he began sleeping in my bed instead of in his cot at the Med Center.  I assumed he had some backup residence, and only spent so long at the center because he was consumed by his need to help others.  Without fully realizing, I became that ‘other.'

His interest in what you’d call ‘traditional medicine’ grew, Doctor.  He began blending all sorts of teas out of roots and leaves he collected from abandoned gardens and the outskirts of the forest.  He would list everything he knew about the properties and flavors of his ingredients before grinding them between his hands in a mesh bag, dunking them ceremoniously in our collected rations of water, and finally serving them to me.  

One night, he stepped around the altars I had supposedly built in the room.  He knelt before the one he had offered his own blood to, the one he regarded as funerary.  A strip of fabric had since blown into it, and I never found the strength to remove it.  But Parmak did, denouncing it as an unwelcome guest and immediately tying it so that it held back his hair, instead.  The result was about half as neat as mine had been, since the night he untamed it.  I thought it suited him very well, and said so quietly.

With a sincere ‘thank you,’ he joined me at the dining table and began work on the daily blend of tea.  I knew he sometimes bolstered it with dissolvable vitamins and pain-relief compounds, but I never argued.  I sipped it and complimented the taste.

“It was sent from the station,” he explained. “I took it from your lockbox at the Med Center.”

I was more honored than I could ever be upset at this breach of my privacy.  I rarely had the energy to travel to the Med Center at all these days.  I saved it for our field assignments, where I needed my strength to haul survivors from the unending rubble.  Parmak sometimes talked about expanding the center to include a unit within our home, but only after I was well enough to consent.  I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

“Doctor Bashir?” I asked, voice overly hopeful.  That was what was wrong with me.

“The caption said ‘nothing,’” Parmak replied, but phrasing it to sound as though the card was blank.

“It said… ah,” I considered the words in another order, “ _Odo_.  The constable!”

Parmak seemed to dismiss this as another of my lapses from reality, and tried softly to draw me back in.  

“I meant what I said, Elim.  I’ve written to your Doctor Bashir twice now, and I’m confident I can get him to join us.”

“I must’ve written him a hundred times,” I said, feeling suddenly defensive.  Like two more communiques would push Bashir over his self-satisfied edge and get him down here to practice real medicine.  Like another set of charming, meandering words from the pen of a Cardassian would change his mind about anything.

I thought about the strange sensation of loving you more, Doctor, while you were away from me and couldn’t protest.  I could build up your wrongs and forgive them in my own time.  And I did always forgive them.

Parmak leaned forward, putting one hand in my hair and pressing what you’d consider a kiss to my cheek.  He must’ve taken my lovesick rambling about humanity to heart.  I reached to stroke the new tie in his hair, to understand the fabric and commit it to memory.  To distract myself from thinking any further of you.  This was always impossible; even his hair sat in waves like yours would, given the humidity.  I would freely admit that I was a hopeless, incurable cause.  

Parmak traced his hand down, down until it rested over my stomach.  He pressed it there and made a thoughtful sound.  It was obvious how quickly and completely I’d lost the weight put on me by the station.  Even after this short time on the surface, faced with ‘real’ food, struggling to adapt to the skills our ancestors had outgrown ages ago.  

Mila was responsible for stocking the ‘real’ food Parmak and I now subsisted on.  Many years prior, she had taken the fruits rejected from my father’s garden, steamed them, seasoned them, and stored them in cans of thick syrup.  She spoke of saving them for a later time, when they would be needed, but had no intention of the words ever coming true.  She merely liked to be prepared.

“Maybe he’s still reading what you wrote him,” Parmak argued.  He guided his hand to my waist, now beneath the tunic, and appraised the bones he could feel there.  He managed to make his voice gentle, even as it listed all the unpleasant things I was supposedly suffering from.

“He’s a very quick reader,” I countered, “and I couldn’t sacrifice a word of what I said.  He needed to hear it all.”

He patted the bone several times, making me feel like I was the subject of a livestock auction.  But I knew this was not his intention, so I dropped the thought and scowled after it.

“Then he’ll come.”

Every time Parmak said this, it sounded more to me like a child’s story than a grown man’s promise.  His voice had changed too, suggesting this was not just a suspicion on my part.  When I focused, I could still read people.

Parmak continued his study of me, only pausing to allow me to swallow mouthfuls of my tea.  I took smaller and smaller sips on purpose, so his hands would linger over me while he waited.  I felt his nails cross the threshold of my collar, brushing my skin before pulling away from it.

“Did I ever tell you,” I began, voice quiet and distracted by the touch, “that he was the one who disabled my implant?”

“That cruel torture device of yours?  No, you didn’t; I was hoping you didn’t still have it…”

I leaned in against his shoulder, and he sighed without sounding inconvenienced.

“I was convinced there wasn’t a shred of dignity left to me, but he behaved like that was completely untrue.  Like he ignored everything I told him.”

“That’s best, sometimes.”

I pulled away, to give Parmak a skeptical look.  He laughed, lightly, then scooted back in his chair.

“He didn’t take me to the Infirmary until it became absolutely necessary,” I said.

Parmak nodded as if he supported this method of practice.  It matched our current situation.

“It was strange,” I continued, “my body felt… like static?  Like I was thrown into a tub of very hot water and then pelted with cubes of ice.  But my _mind_ , Parmak.  It was clear, drained of everything, every unpleasant sensation.  I remember every _word_ he said to me, I remember his hands fighting to keep me still so he could dress me in a medical tunic and carry me to the safety of the Infirmary.  He said I would suffer withdrawal, and I suppose that was true… all I understood at the time was pleasure, immediately substituted for the sincerity in his fingertips.  I never wanted to let go of his hand.”

“Soon,” Parmak said, to soothe me.  I had become consumed by the memory, to the point my hands shook over the tabletop as I spoke.  Parmak said there was nothing wrong with being passionate, and that it was, in fact, one of my better traits.   

⟡⟡⟡

I tried to convince myself it was an accident, running into Odo at Quark’s, even though I knew his preferred seat and could’ve spotted him from across the Promenade.  

“It was nice,” I said, toying with the words in my mind before passing them down to my mouth, “the carrot cake.  Thank you.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Odo said.  It seemed to me that he was doing the same trick of convincing himself to believe things he knew were untrue.  Or, at least, that were uncomfortable.

I sat in the seat beside him.  Odo waved Quark away the moment he noticed me and began approaching, readying my preferred style of glass in his hands.  He turned, disappointed, and set the glass back in its place beneath the counter.

“Did you have it with tea?” Odo asked, voice needlessly low.  I enjoyed watching Quark try to crane his neck to hear us without raising suspicion.

“I did, yes.  Splendid.  I had it with a Bajoran blend Colonel Kira recommended; it complemented the spice of the cake perfectly.”

Odo accepted this with a nod, and his face told me Kira had practiced her tea pairing with a selection of desserts he’d made her.  I thought I was meant to feel special, so I allowed myself the indulgence.

Quark continued watching us, eyes peering over the bar under the premise of cleaning the hidden shelves.

“I considered asking Rom about it,” I began, watching Quark’s eyes light up, “but I believe I would feel more comfortable talking to you, Constable.”

He turned and sat in a way that obstructed Quark’s view, and I wanted to laugh with delight.  It was Quark who needed to hear this, but I figured he would soon enough.  Odo gave the same weight and protection to all secrets he was faced with, which I admired endlessly from the unique perspective of someone trained since birth to do the opposite.

“Doctor Bashir told me about a new holosuite software,” I continued, “one that allows you to relive past experiences and change them.”

“Yes,” said Odo, with a nod.  I was sure Quark desperately wanted to interrupt us with a list of prices.

“I would like to purchase one, but I’m afraid the programming would need to be altered to truly achieve the outcome I have in mind.”

Odo did not immediately ask what I was considering, but instead asked if we could continue our talk in the privacy of his office.  I followed him there, trying to get the words right as we walked.

Once the doors slid shut, I managed to convey my idea with enough clarity for Odo to understand.

“Lord knows Quark has made _worse_ modifications to those things over the years,” Odo said, with just a hint of fondness.  “When would you need it by?”

“I’m not sure,” I faltered.  “Before I leave, I know that.”

“Of course.  Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I shook my head.

“Thank you, Constable.  I appreciate your discretion.”

I truly did.  It felt like something much too valuable to be offered to me, like Odo understood this floundering feeling that had been plaguing me for weeks.  Even if he did not agree with my chosen methods of treatment, he would help me obtain them while preserving the secrecy I’d grown so dependent on.  

“Just so you’re aware,” he said slowly, to stop me staring longingly at the door, “what you’re asking for might require some… physical alterations.  You might be made to feel the programming through an electromagnetic implant.”

“Well,” I said, shrugging.  I did not finish the thought.

Odo gave a knowing nod, and said he would start working on it immediately, with only the absolute minimum of assistance from Quark.

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak, the saint, accepted my lowly offering of the last sip of tea from my cup.  Bajoran, because Odo sent it and knew I was deeply fond of it, trying to work past contrived shame.  

I settled the rim of the cup against his lips, pressing it forward until I could hear that he was drinking.  Gradually, I removed it, and waited to receive his thoughts.

“I can see why you like it,” he said.  “It’s very bold.”

I felt ridiculous, sitting there and comparing tasting notes while we could be out saving lives.  Parmak must have caught this on my face, because he said he was working, first, on mine.  He stood and moved to open the storeroom where the cans of Mila’s preserves were kept.  He retrieved one that was vaguely blueish and twisted it open.  Carefully, he poured some of it onto my empty plate, swirling it around with a spoon until he was satisfied, somehow, that I would enjoy it.

“I think you’re doing exceptionally well, Elim,” but he did not elaborate.  “Are we still set for that game of kotra this evening?  I think your mind works best when it’s occupied."

I got the feeling Parmak was chipping away at me, bit by bit, trying to remove all my faults from me.  By the time he finished, I was sure nothing would be leftover, even though he repeatedly insisted otherwise.  I would need to be completely rebuilt.  That’s where you come in, Doctor - or is that what you’d call ‘wishful thinking?’  Seems I learned something from you after all.   



	3. Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I had requested the plot be left intact, including the supposed failing of the safety nets. I was delighted to see the disappointment on the holographic Bashir’s face when I stepped forward to join him, taking his shoulders and doing my best to quickly make his companion uncomfortable. She left us."

I lost count of the time I’d spent on the surface, and the computer in my household no longer gave accurate accounts.  The dust was slowly suffocating it, too.

I had, however, regained my strength and my sense of purpose, as I walked with Parmak toward the Med Center one day.  We stopped halfway there to attend to a crowd that had formed around a crumbling courthouse.  State buildings were still, bizarrely, the first place many civilians sought safety.  We assumed the majority of these people would need us, not a hearing.

Parmak found an older woman complaining of headaches, and opened his kit atop a pillar to begin his work.  Headaches were a frequent symptom of my own, and Parmak had learned how to cure them quickly in a variety of ways.  I, meanwhile, could never ignore the opportunity to help a child, not since I had done so years ago.  I’m not sure Doctor Bashir ever forgave me, but at least the disappointment on his face was enough to fuel my actions on this day.

Two boys were arguing, shoving each other.  I approached with my arms peacefully extended, ready to ask what was troubling them, when the smaller one fell and collided with me.  He was nothing but bone, and I felt blood welling up in my nose as his elbow jabbed my face.  I sighed and was gentle in pushing him away, still asking what was wrong.

He gaped up at me and gave no answer, not even an inkling of regret for the injury he’d caused me.  I heard Parmak calling for me, and went to join him right away.  There was nothing else I could do.

“They’re setting up a quarantine zone at the courthouse,” he explained.  “The woman I spoke to was a senator; she led the campaign for it last year.”

“Quarantine for what?”

“Everything,” he said with a shrug.  “There’s no use sending sick people to wards of ones who are merely injured.  Imagine, breaking a leg after a bombing then being trapped in a room full of inescapable disease.”

I rubbed my nose along my sleeve.  Parmak reached, caught it, and pulled it toward himself for inspection.

“Inescapable,” he repeated softly.  He fumbled through his kit for a capsule of cotton, which he then stuffed into the offending nostril.

“No,” I corrected, drawing my face away, “I was hit.  That boy, he ran into me.  It’s nothing serious.”

He let out a long, relieved breath, and pulled me close against him.

“I don’t know what I would do if it were.”

⟡⟡⟡

Odo walked with me to the holosuite and led along a Bajoran doctor who looked like she would rather be anywhere else.  She was carrying the electromagnetic attachment.

She installed it quickly, pressing it into the groove at the back of my neck, aligning it with some feature of my brain.  I didn’t listen to the explanation, and she sounded bored to be giving it.

The irony of the programming had indeed gone over Rom’s head as I expected, and, if I thought about it too much, the details went over mine as well.  Odo had done the work himself, with technology Quark apparently owed him.  He glanced, now, at the PADD he brought along.  It would record emissions from my temporary implant, allowing him to enter when the simulation was complete.  He wished me luck in finding my closure, and asked again if I needed assistance setting my bowtie.  I politely declined.

I had requested the plot be left intact, including the supposed failing of the safety nets.  I was delighted to see the disappointment on the holographic Bashir’s face when I stepped forward to join him, taking his shoulders and doing my best to quickly make his companion uncomfortable.  She left us.

I patiently endured his fawning over the other female characters.  I had been that way, too, when I was closer to his age; falling almost instantly in love with anyone I thought I was unworthy of.  The list was long.

He asked if I had ever learned how to tie a bowtie.  I waved this off and he leaned in to do it for me, smiling and sighing fondly against my cheek, as we stood so closely together.  Next, he asked if I wanted anything to drink.  We settled on opening a bottle of champagne, at Bashir’s recommendation, tipping our glasses together before we drank.

With this repetition, and the ability to make whatever changes I wished, I planned to step forward and save the foolish doctor’s life three times.  He kindly tolerated my lecture about the foils of feigning heroism, and even led me _by the hand_ to our penultimate destination.  Before waving down the club’s doorman, he stopped to dab the blood from the side of my lip.  He swiped his thumb over it, like it was some identification scanner, blurring the blood into my bottom lip before pulling his hand away, embarrassed.  

“I know he threatened me,” he said, with a gentle giggle, “but you’ve _got_ to be more careful.  Everything’s _real_ now.”

⟡⟡⟡

My nosebleed was, as I expected, nothing serious, and cleared up by the time we returned home that evening.  The cotton was removed, the clot passed, and I spoke expectantly of the tea Parmak was planning to make me.  Something sweet to soothe my temper.

He did come in contact with a virus that day, but also insisted it was not worth worrying about.  Little splotches of bacteria formed around his scales, and he calmly directed me to dab them with a sponge and some hot water.  I had suffered a similar infection once as a child, and Parmak assured me this was enough to keep me safe from contracting it again.

When we had finished our evening meal, I led him to the bedroom and was careful in removing the obstructive clothing so I could complete my task.  I had not felt so useful in many years, as I filled a saucer with water and swirled my finger around in it to collect the specks of dust.

“Seems we could’ve done with a quarantine sooner,” I expressed this thoughtfully, while painting one of Parmak’s pectoral scales with the water.

He glanced momentarily up at me, before shutting his eyes.

“Or I could’ve come in contact with _this_ sooner,” he said, as if it was no trouble at all, “and we would not be here now.”

“You _cannot_ be suggesting you don’t want the quarantine?”

“No,” he added quickly, “I’m sure it was a well-intentioned campaign, but it’s not going to be so good in practice, I’m afraid.  Who in their right mind would go in there to help?”

“I’ve always said you were out of your mind, for caring for me,” I told him, fondly.  He smiled back at me and clicked his tongue.  “I’m _certain_ my mind is in much worse shape than yours, anyhow.”

“You don’t need to volunteer for hopeless causes like this anymore, Elim.  It would serve you better to gain some sense of satisfaction, to-”

“Hopeless causes?” I withdrew the sponge and laughed, surprised, “I’m the most hopeless cause there is.”

Based on everything I knew of Parmak, hopeless causes were his favorite to support.  I knew, also, that Doctor Bashir did not believe in them, but I couldn’t tell whether that was a trait he was born with, or a result of his augmentation.  I didn’t care, as long as I knew _someone_ out there wasn’t willing to give up on me.  I was very good at stalemates, to the point this was probably the only thing keeping me alive.

“We will come up with another solution, Elim,” Parmak promised.  “A blindfold is not the answer to an optical illusion.”

I could not think of a response.

“Would you bring me a PADD?” Parmak ventured.  I did so, and left him alone to work.

It felt strange, to be in a state of disagreement with Parmak.  Until then, our relationship had been much more typically human - sweet and supportive - than it had been Cardassian.  Maybe I was meant to be surprised.  I’d been away from home too long.

⟡⟡⟡

On my next walk to the Med Center, I thought about some of the discussions I enjoyed with Doctor Bashir.  He had a quick and passionate mind, which had - in our earlier meetings - drawn me out of the spineless seclusion forced upon me by my implant, and encouraged me to reengage in my work.  By our later encounters, I delighted in keeping my thoughts several steps ahead of his, like some romantic relay race.

He wrote to me once since my landing on Cardassia.  It was mostly innocuous; lists of recent challenges to his career, a summary of a Bajoran poetry collection he’d read solely to recommend to me, questions about how I was feeling.  I read over it countless times, under the impression he was writing to sound like _me_ , and that there was more between the words than there was inside them.  But I quickly learned that my skills in deciphering people were useless when the people were reduced to unchanging text on a screen.

I recalled, however, a list of research projects he had sponsored, and likely completed all on his own.  He liked to divide the credit so he didn’t make himself look too extraordinary, too valuable.  I would’ve done the same.

Several of his sponsored projects were modified field rations, a topic he had been working on for years prior.  The first batch of them arrived in my Med Center lockbox along with a manual titled ‘Reconstitution.’

Smiling and shaking my head, I removed the collection of powders from my lockbox and began scrolling through the instructions.  With the addition of varying quantities of water, which the Federation had supplied several months prior, the powder promised to become everything from breads to broths, porridges to puddings.

The last passage included celebratory recipes, such as champagne and chocolates.  I chose to believe these were added especially for me.

⟡⟡⟡

“I can’t let you do that for me,” the holographic Bashir insisted, “it’ll compromise the program.”

I ignored everything I’d just told him about faking bravery and took several steps away from him.  He did not reach out to stop me.  Instead, I felt the implant throbbing against the back of my head, as the passage of time slowed around me.  

“ _Don’t,_ ” he pleaded, voice much kinder than it had been the first time we visited this fantasy.

“Or what?” I asked him, poorly veiling my sick excitement, “you’ll kill me?”

That was all, this time.  He fired.

Everything moved so slowly that I could see the bullet and discern its direction.  I pivoted and stretched to stand as tall as I could, ensuring it would hit a lower and more vulnerable place, unguarded by scales or ridges.  It tore effortlessly through the silky fabric of my shirt, and I felt it push through my skin, next.  There was some substance to it; I wondered how Odo had programmed this effect.

The anchor of the implant surged into my skin, and I was met with a warm sensation in my chest.  Odo was a genius; he’d used a simple blood capsule.  It broke against my sternum, and the implant told me to feel afraid.  I was overcome by the anxiety; I no longer dictated my reactions.  I began breathing quickly, fingers fumbling over the wound.

The image of Bashir rushed to me, admonishing me instead of admitting his love, telling me the safeguards had been deactivated and that what I’d done was very foolish.

“I know,” I said.  

It was sufficient cause for him to cradle me in his arms.  He knew there was no medkit nearby.  

He held one hand against my chest, hard, willing the blood back inside.  This was the most primitive medicine he’d ever been reduced to practicing, assuming he never makes the journey to war-torn Cardassia.  But that was, of course, my reason for having this program rewritten.

His free hand moved to my cheek, and his thumb again grazed my lips.  He softly pried them open and kept our skin in contact.  It was a reminder to me to breathe, one he had practiced before on account of my anxiety, but never in such an arguably intimate context.  

“Garak, you’ve-” he could not find any more words in that sweet head of his to use against me, so he turned on himself, “I can’t _lose_ you, Garak.  Not you, not like this.”

I fought to lift my hands over his, atop the wound.  I squeezed as hard as I could.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Doctor.  You’ve done all you can for me.”

Suddenly, my thoughts felt fuzzy, and the implant drew out its anchoring needles.  My last vision was of Bashir leaning over me, until I was almost convinced he was prepared to kiss me, drawing his lips eagerly toward the target his thumb had set.  Even in a preprogrammed fantasy, it seemed I could not win.

It was not his face, anymore, but the face of the Bajoran doctor.  The chain of her earring was long and elaborate, and it dangled above my eyes like a mobile above a baby’s bed.  I blinked, painfully, and tried to sit up.  Her arms were forceful in stopping me, pushing me down against the cold tile grid.  It took me several minutes to slow my breathing, and I was admittedly grateful when she removed the attachment and walked away from me, allowing me the space and silence I required.

Odo gave me an inquisitive nod, and only approached me after I had returned it.  He passed me one of those glittery rags from the Infirmary, smelling of bleach and several solutions meant to mask this.  I rubbed this solemnly over the borrowed blood, the last remaining memory of my fantasy.

“Did you... find your closure?” he asked me, voice dipping momentarily into hope.

I struggled to stand up but refused his help.

“Thank you for your concern, Constable,” I said, “but I’m not sure I ever will.”

⟡⟡⟡

I was better able to keep track of time while caring for Parmak’s infection.  I counted six days before he left the house - even then only to walk to the garden - and another two days before he began planning our next trip to the center.  Other than this, he spent the days inside, sipping replicated broths and attentively making edits to something on his PADD.  

On the eighth night, he was making arrangements for us to leave the following evening.  I changed the precautionary plaster he had worn over the infected scales, and found the skin to be mostly clear and dry.  He had diagnosed this much already without even studying himself in the mirror.  I admired his ability, and told him so.

“Thank you, Elim.”

“Can I do anything else for you?” I very much hoped the answer would be ‘yes.’

He scrolled through the same file on his PADD, one he wouldn’t let me read, even when we settled into bed beside each other and I tried to see over his shoulder.

“As I’m feeling better,” he said, “I’d like to join you for a meal this evening.  Would you--?”

I volunteered, in the same breath, to make us some tea.  I went out into the yard to find suitable ingredients.

I did not hear Parmak’s footsteps behind me, but I could sense someone approaching.  I told myself over and over not to believe it would be Doctor Bashir, to the point I was faithful to this mantra, even when he approached me.

He stopped at the property gate, catching his breath, watching as I slowly stood and dropped the roots I had gathered from the garden.  Of course I could tell it was him, despite the distance.  He was even wearing a suit I’d made for him years ago, pastel blue and unimposing, especially for medical away missions.  I ran to him.

First, he said my name as if he was surprised to see me, although I’m sure he had been planning the trip for weeks.  Then he wrapped both arms around me, and started sobbing on my shoulder.  I felt almost unworthy of this, somehow.

“I don’t have any excuses,” he said, composing himself.  He shifted backward, but not far enough to let go of me.  Just far enough to match my gaze, if he wanted to.

“I wouldn’t mind if you were to invent some,” I told him.

His sniffling led into laughter.

“I’ll do that." 

Then, I was sure I heard Parmak approaching us.  I felt him touch my shoulder, guiding himself into the conversation.  Bashir took a full step backward, to study both of us in turn.

“Doctor Bashir,” I said, extending my arm as a bridge between them, “Doctor Parmak, a dear friend of mine.”

Bashir gave a knowing nod, having heard this title applied to himself for so many years already.  I hadn’t realized I was introducing them in Federation until Bashir made a point of clearing his throat and attempting to continue in Cardassian.

“We’ve been in touch,” he said, adopting the smug smile I’d missed so much.  “It’s good to officially meet you, Doctor Parmak.”

“Please: Kelas.”

Bashir took Parmak’s hand and shook it, reaching to squeeze his forearm as he did so.

“Julian, then.  How are you feeling?” 

“In your debt, somehow, just the way Elim described you.  Welcome home.”

I felt relieved, absorbing the easy energy which flowed between them.  We moved inside together, arms tangled around each other, and sat down to enjoy replicated champagne.

That was the only artificial component of my closure.   



	4. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was natural for Pythas to notice this, and for me to miss it completely. His success was built on remaining universally likable, stepping on nothing but fences. Meanwhile, I volunteered for whichever extreme would have me, with the same goal in mind, but never reaching the same outcome. Until now."

It took the downstairs corridor about a week to outlive its usefulness.  

Doctor Bashir had not brought much along with him, and was able to leave it all in our room one morning while we were away.  By the time we all returned from work, he had unpacked and made himself comfortable, which we had invited him to do since the moment he arrived.  

He was sitting at the work-table, comparing prescriptions to a series of sample dishes, when we met him.  Our days, now, alternated between working at the Center and following the disused public transport route to the state-appointed Asylum District, a former garden that was still mostly intact.  Civilians flocked there because it was promised to be safe, but the more of them that made the journey, the less truth this held.

Bashir glanced up from his work and gave a timid smile.

“I meant to bring my cot up,” he explained, “but I got a bit distracted.”

He nodded toward the samples and then stood to greet us.  Parmak enjoyed the firm handshakes Bashir always offered, tightly gripping Parmak’s arm and blushing beyond his better judgement.  I watched this exchange, entertained by the fact I spoke both these cultural languages, and refused to interpret either one.

Parmak saw it as much more intimate than Bashir would have intended, but that only helped the human’s cause.  

“You don’t need to do that,” Parmak said.  

Bashir dropped his hand, and, after awkwardly clearing his throat, said, “No, of course not.”

“How complete is your knowledge of _us_ , Julian?” Parmak led, “Are you the attentive student Elim claims you are?”

I could not immediately recall making any such statements, and assumed the words drifted from me while I was partially distracted and mostly asleep under the influence of Parmak’s touch.  His tactics were so opposite to mine that I forgot they existed at all, sometimes.  He must’ve known everything about me, but I felt safe in this, instead of vulnerable.

“Of Cardassians?” Bashir confirmed, at which Parmak nodded.  “I can hardly say I’m an expert; the station _never_ had an acceptable database for your medical information.  But I have seen your cultural shifts over the last decade.  And I’ve read every book you’ve ever lent me, Garak, really.”

I turned and nodded gratefully back at him from across the room, where I stood and exchanged my uniform coat for one that was less restrictive.

“Research has never been devoted to the phenomenon,” Parmak continued, “but there are many of us with the capacity to care for multiple partners.  It was secretive and shameful in the past, but I think desperation has led us closer to understanding.  And we are desperate for support now, more than ever.  We are capable of being a very… _romantic_ race.  Elim here has been interested in almost everyone he’s ever met.”

“In varying degrees,” I said, with all the conviction of a defense attorney who was destined to lose every case of his career.  Parmak had not meant it to be insulting; he rarely did.  

“Elim,” Bashir echoed, studying and appreciating the name but not using it to address me.  I smiled to acknowledge him, but did not respond otherwise.  We’d practiced this game for years.

“So when we say you are welcome here,” Parmak concluded, “we mean you are welcome to share in what we’ve established, in whatever capacity you find most comfortable.”

“I’ve been trying to tell him that for _years_ ,” I scoffed, but made sure my tone remained playful.

“I only learned that being standoffish, self-absorbed, and outright argumentative were qualities of Cardassian courtship _last week_ ,” Bashir said.  I thought this was one of the fabricated excuses he promised me, and laughed to myself.

“Regardless,” I said, “there were several times I thought I made my intentions _very_ obvious, Doctor.  Too obvious to be safe, if we were anywhere but on that dreadful station.”

⟡⟡⟡

Bashir always seemed surprised when I walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, so I did this almost every time we had lunch together.

On one occasion, somewhere in the middle of our acquaintanceship, I paused to study the PADD he was reading from before proceeding to touch him.  He turned, spoke my name inside a relieved sigh, and explained that he had ordered our meals already.  I was not concerned.

“And _who_ ,” I said slowly, indicating the PADD as I sat, “might that be?”

“Clay,” he replied.  It took a moment for the word to meet my translator as a proper name, “we were at the Academy together.”

“Ah.”

I watched Bashir as he took his tea and sipped it, blinking incessantly as if trying to deter my attention.  I understood this as traditional in human courtship, simply feeling nervous.  I wondered if I should make him feel better or worse, and didn’t even know which outcome I had in mind when I continued.

“Yes, I agree,” I said, delighting in the confused pout he made, “he is quite attractive.”

“How did y--?”

“Please, Doctor,” I said, showing him one hand in surrender, “your face is easier to read than that Fleming anthology you loaned me.”

“...You _agree?_ ”

“I do have eyes, Doctor.  Now, I assume this friend of yours will be visiting you on the station?”

“He’s been assigned to _Seleya III_ ’s research team, and they’re making a stop here next week, yes.  But I don’t think he’ll be visiting _me_.”

“You didn’t end on good terms?”

He stirred his tea, staring into it like an answer could come bubbling up any moment.

“We didn’t ‘end’ at all, really.  He went straight into the service as an ensign, and I went on to the Medical Academy.  We haven’t seen each other since.”

“But you were, at one point, together?”

“ _I_ thought so, anyway.  But I’ve been wrong about things like that before.”

⟡⟡⟡

Fitful daydreams often accompanied my sessions in the Pit.  I had worked through the assigned duels with all of my classmates, and found different visions associated with each one.

When our group had completed the requirements, we were allowed to select our own partners for one day of work.  I gravitated immediately to Eight; the dreams were most pleasant when I was staring into his delicately carved features.  His movements were precise in a way that relaxed me, instead of unnerving me.  

We were finishing an intermediate stratagem when the vision finally came to me, clouding my eyes so I could not distinguish it easily from reality.  I still saw Eight in front of me, each corner of his lips twitching into momentary grins at intervals, either encouraging me to engage him or praising me when I did.  

The exercise was finished, and this approving expression remained on Eight’s face, freezing me where I stood.

The hazy visions of our classmates left us, one by one, until we were alone in the sand.  Eight turned to look quickly over both shoulders, before seizing mine, tugging me forward, and kissing me.  

I was still standing there, blinking slowly and stupidly back at him, when the dream cleared.  I executed a defensive move incorrectly, as a result of this, and Eight swatted my arm away.  The spar was over and the group was dismissed.  

I caught hold of his forearm, ensuring he would not leave until the others had done so.  He did not seem to have any intention of moving, anyway, and looked down at my hand fondly until we were alone.

This time, I was the one to check over both shoulders.  I saw no one, but I could not shake off the paranoia that I was, perhaps, still in the dreaming state.  I tried to convey what I saw to him in our developing silent language, and began by guiding his hands to my shoulders.

Then, I saw the spark of a smile in the corner of his mouth.  His eyes widened, gleaming, and he tightened his grip.  I leaned forward in anticipation.

His lips did not meet mine.  Instead, he pressed them to a point on my forehead, where both lines of ridges converged.  He pulled back slowly, but maintained his grip on me.

“We make a strong partnership,” he said, gently.  “I’m so pleased to have you as a friend.”

⟡⟡⟡

Once he was settled in, Bashir began work at the Quarantine.  He was its sole employee; the remainder of the State did not allow Cardassian civilians to access the site, afraid all of us would soon succumb to infection.  But Bashir, a uniquely immune human, was happy to coordinate relief efforts on his own.  He ended all of his shifts there by walking through a series of disinfectant showers, and he always arrived home smelling of the chemicals.

His usual remedy was to bathe in clean water and a sprinkling of one of the spices he had brought down with him from the station, things to make into medicinal tea and to add flavor to replicated food rations.  He often bathed with a curl of cinnamon.

Parmak and I rarely disturbed him, allowing him the chance to rest peacefully after his work, knowing he would relay his challenges and achievements to us when we settled down to sleep afterward.  But sometimes Parmak would spark discussions with him about some of the illnesses he encountered, and I would sit and admire their ability to engage as equals in their field.  

During one such afternoon, Bashir held open the door to the chamber for hygiene, even as he began filling the bath.  I followed slowly, cautiously, with Parmak nudging me forward.  Bashir took a cinnamon stick from his collection and wet it under the tap before dropping it gently into the water.  He folded his lab coat and left it on the ground, then continued undressing.

I forced myself to stare at Parmak, instead, because he had already made the claim of staring at Bashir.  Their discussion of cataracts was immediately replaced by a new curiosity, ebbing between us more strongly than the bathwater.

Bashir cleared his throat, uncomfortable but amused, and lowered himself into the water.  Parmak leaned against the ledge behind him.

“May I?” Parmak asked.

“By all means,” Bashir replied, although I got the impression he had no idea what he was agreeing to.

Parmak quietly called me over to join him, as he smoothed his fingers over Bashir’s shoulders, toward his collarbone.  

“I didn’t know it would be quite so… thin,” Parmak began, “so brittle.  Did you, Elim?”

Bashir chuckled twice to himself.  I knew.

Their talk then turned effortlessly to endoskeletons and the evolution of defensive traits.  I watched as Parmak started a kneading motion over Bashir’s shoulders, and Bashir arched his neck appreciatively, likely stretching for a more enjoyable angle.

“Kelas,” he said, and that was all.  

Parmak leaned in to look at him, before turning again to me.  I could see he was struggling to continue touching Bashir without digging too deep with his fingernails.

“I believe Elim knows more than I do, Julian, about the best ways for us to interact.”

Parmak always spoke with admirable restraint, something I had given up on the moment Bashir arrived on Cardassia.  Humans preferred these matters to be direct.

“I’m happy to give a demonstration,” I decided.

Bashir laughed again, excited, and gestured for me to join him in the bath.  I had practiced very little of what I intended to do.  Maybe I needed to borrow some of Parmak’s restraint.

I touched the same place Parmak had, so I could agree with his conclusion.  I thought the bone there could break easily between my fingers, so I withdrew.  

Bashir traded places with me, so I was pressed between the ledge and Parmak.  After a brief kiss, which he initiated, he turned away from me and leaned in, so his shoulders met my chest.  The pressure was overwhelming, threatening to deem my demonstration a failure.

I felt Parmak hovering over me, asking about the significance of each of our interactions.  Bashir gave patient explanations, as he followed my hands down to his waist and clasped them there.  From this point, his fingers crept along to the patch of scales on my thigh.  He gripped there, hard, and pulled my leg up into a folded position.  In return, all I could manage to give him was a pathetic whine.

“Cardassian skin is so,” Bashir began, in a half-professional tone, “ _smooth._ I could spend days just… playing with it.”

“The feeling is mutual, my dear,” I said to him.  

His skin was, as Parmak also noted, a good deal more coarse, speckled with hair instead of scales and bumps instead of ridges.  I found the combination of these in the middle of his throat to be most intriguing, and drew one hand out of the water to study this area further.  He tucked his head up against my neck, over my shoulder, leaving this area completely exposed to me.  I thought it would be best to stroke slowly, and Bashir gave an agreeable-sounding sigh.  

"Many people," Bashir said, in a tone that declared me innocent of this majority, "would rush through this part.  Or forego it on purpose.  It depends entirely on the circumstances, and the relationship of those involved."

"Of course," said Parmak. "And what a wasteful sacrifice.  I'm determined to keep it in _our_ relationship, Julian.  I assume you’d agree, Elim?”

“Mmm,” I said, and shut my eyes.

“I think it’s vital to establish a strong friendship with one’s partners,” Bashir added.

“A sense of safety and support,” Parmak concluded.

It was clear that Bashir’s arrival had forced the three of us forward in ways that were unobtainable to any respective pairing.  Parmak and I had interacted like this before, but only touching each other beneath blankets in daylight too bright to allow embarrassment.  He liked to preserve a professional element of our relationship; he hated the thought of me becoming too dependent on him.  Bashir and I, meanwhile, could have evaded each other for another decade.  And how would the other two have met, if not for me and my seemingly incurable sentimentality?

“Exactly,” Bashir said, in the low register he reserved for times he knew he was right.

Parmak made an affirmative noise and leaned in over my shoulder.  My eyes were shut, but I felt the ridge along his chin scrape over those on my neck, and then his lips clasped over one of the scales, applying pressure.

I expected to feel a rush of my blood, but this was impossible through the heat and motion of the water.  I was content to feel nothing, aside from the perfectly complementary approaches of my partners.

⟡⟡⟡

Bashir joined us for a meal before leaving for the Quarantine, after spending his first night with us in our room.  As usual, Parmak left before me, and went to the kitchen to try and coax something new and vaguely Cardassian out of our rations packets.  They were distributed by the Federation, after all, and were hardly tailored to our tastes.

By the time I joined them at the dining table, after dressing and trying to prepare myself mentally for work, they had already distributed our breakfast from a pot at the center of the table.  Parmak had finished eating already, and sat in front of an empty bowl.  I assumed he had not taken enough food for himself, as usual, but I had not yet found an inoffensive way to address this problem.

Bashir was taking slow bites from his plate while Parmak held his forearm in a way I’d done hundreds of times, whenever I wanted to be sure he misinterpreted what I was saying to him.  Bashir and I were alike in that way, easily swayed by the sensation of touch.

I had spent the entire night awake, despite having my choice of welcoming arms to sleep in.  I covered my mouth as I yawned and took my seat.

“There you are, Garak,” Bashir hummed at me.  “We were just discussing the regulations for Asylum Districts.”

“Why?”

“Julian was looking to establish one closer to home,” Parmak offered.  “The transport routes will not remain untouched forever, and the Reunion followers should support us.  With that, and help from the Federation, I think we might actually make a difference to some of the survivors.”

The violence, by this point, was waning and intermittent.  We were most at risk of malnutrition or illness, as the State often reminded us.  Everything I held true about Cardassia told me that we would, as a people, survive.  I wasn’t sure whether or not to include myself in this figure, but now I had both Bashir and Parmak to help me reclaim my sanity.

I nodded to show my support.

“You can take the antibiotic compounds I was working on last night,” Bashir said, indicating his case, where I assumed they were now stored.  “I uploaded the formulas to the Quarantine computer for myself.”

“Thank you,” Parmak said, finally dropping Bashir’s arm so he could grab the case.  

Bashir found it much easier to meet my eyes than Parmak ever did.

“I want to get the children out of there, first,” he said.  “I was working with two siblings yesterday, one’s in there for residual hearing loss and seizures-”

“-the results of a bombing half-a-year ago,” Parmak interjected, upset.

“And the other isn’t even sick, they’re just afraid of becoming separated” Bashir concluded. “They don’t belong in there; it’s dismal.”

⟡⟡⟡

With my back turned to the group of children, I spoke into my companion’s ear.

“I’m letting them go,” I said quietly, bitterly, as if that would make the words less surprising.

Pythas _did_ look at me like I was insane.  I told Doctor Bashir this, but that was the day he stopped, by his own admission, trying to interpret anything I said as true.  Even though some of it was; the moment the implant was switched off, I found myself leaking truths from throughout my lifetime - as well as others I’m sure were invented as part of my exile - all mixed together.  It was not his fault for drowning in them, but mine for not offering assistance.

“That won’t help us,” he said, in his usual concise way.

“They know nothing.  How could they?  The Bajorans would never be so cruel.  It’s not like when _we_ were young, Pythas.”

I returned my attention to our prisoners, and took a single step forward.  They were shaking out of fear, while my shaking was caused by the cold.  I stood taller and willed myself still.

“You have not answered my questions,” I said, in my sternest voice.  I had to shut my eyes in order to sound convincing, imagining anyone else stood in their place.  How had I been reduced to an assignment like this?  I was promised a challenge, not a cruel and frivolous impossibility.  

“Elim,” Pythas said flatly.  

“I’d prefer to do this without you in the room,” I snapped at him.

“I am your superior,” he replied, “and you will complete this assignment.”

It was not a ‘no.’  Something softened in his eyes, and I was sure he agreed with me.  I needed to exploit this before it vanished.  

“If you leave now,” I proposed, “you will not need to lie in your audit to Central Command.  You will have seen nothing.”

“Elim,” he repeated.

“It’s worthless!”  I growled at him, then returned to the children, “You’re all _worthless_.  Remember that, for the rest of your meaningless lives.”

I herded them all to the door, but Pythas stood in my way.  He spoke as if they could not hear or understand him, which may have been true.  Our blind disregard for Bajorans was a product of our education, and something I have thankfully outgrown my pride of.  

“They aren’t leaving,” he said.  “ _Think_ , Elim.  We only need to hold them until the Withdrawal.  Tomorrow, 0900.  This assignment has no other outcome.”

I shoved the children back.

“That was clear when I accepted it,” Pythas continued, insulting me by making it sound obvious.  “We turn them over to the authorities.  It’s done.”

I jabbed one finger toward the ground.  

“Sit down,” I ordered in Bajoran, and my shivering returned.  I felt Pythas’s arm around my back, trying to get me to stop.  I must’ve have looked pathetic, for him to intervene in such a situation.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” he said slowly.  

"Anymore," I spoke under my breath.

Of course we were sent on a fruitless mission.  That was the reward for reaching a certain level of trust within the Order.  We could recognize and preserve delicacy in a way newer recruits could not.  Lesser agents would have had the literal blood of these children on their hands by now, but Pythas knew better.  I wondered how he found satisfaction in these supposedly sophisticated options, leaving them to be either executed by bitter Guls in the morning or shoved into desolate, overcrowded orphanages.  Releasing them was the only way they could possibly stay safe, and was, therefore, the only thing I could not do.  

It was natural for Pythas to notice this while I missed it completely.  His success was built on remaining universally likeable, stepping on nothing but fences.  I volunteered for whichever extreme would have me, with the same goal in mind, but never reaching the same outcome.  Until now.

“We’re all the same now,” I muttered to Pythas, “don’t you see?  We’re all trapped here, with nothing to wait for but punishment.  Even if we give up and let them go, we’ll--”

He nodded and pulled his arm away.

“I hope I will see you again,” he said, splaying his fingers briefly over my chest.

I did not know what to say.  I took his hand, firmly, and threw it off of me.

We sat down across from our prisoners and passed the night in silence, watching our breaths cool and dissipate into the fog.  


	5. Symbols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gently, I cupped his chin in my hand, running my fingers over the ridges at his jaw to soothe him. I drew the process out more than I thought was necessary, but I had only ever applied the color to myself. In those cases, I was not deeply worried about the result, and could be as rushed or as meticulous as I wished."

Federation installation on _Terok Nor_ brought many welcome challenges to my business.  Even before the entire complement arrived, I was altering their duty uniforms from memory.  I had seen pictures of them - their design was simple and almost mindless to duplicate.

My most fulfilling work, though, came from private commissions.  And, of these, I remember one of Doctor Bashir’s requests most vividly.  No surprises there, I’m sure.  

“I’m going to need, er, several sets of baby clothes,” he said to me, on one of the rare occasions we met for dinner instead of lunch.

I decided not to demonstrate my surprise.  He would make himself uncomfortable in the silence and would explain himself then.  I set down my utensils and dabbed my napkin over my lips, legitimizing my reluctance to speak.

He was quick to say these were for a fellow officer, one of a lower rank in fact, who was expecting twins.  I didn’t question any of these customs.  Odo told me several times how humans loved giving each other gifts, and I sought no further explanation.

Bashir selected patterns from a virtual catalogue I kept, which had not been updated in years.  I drew them out on muslin while he watched me, stammering to say how impressed he was with my memorization skills; I had asked the species designation, taken a quick glance at their records, and started my work immediately afterward.  I would have been happy to host him for the rest of the evening, but I could tell he liked regarding the intricacies of my work as a mystery.  It was my opinion that he preferred to regard me as a spy, and wanted no further proof of my other trade skills. 

“You don’t need anything else from me, then, do you, Garak?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t think so, Doctor.  I’ll have them ready by the shower, but I do hope we’ll see each other before then.”

Politely, he excused himself from the shop and allowed me to continue my work.  I had never made baby clothes before, and was genuinely intrigued by the delicate challenge on the table before me.  It would have been easy to consider this a clear indication of just how far my status had plummeted, but I took it instead as a sign that I would always return to the world I was raised in.  I shrugged and threaded my mechanized needle.

I was caught in this thought pattern, struggling to question the values that were burned into me years ago.  Bashir made no mention of this expectant father having a partner, and it had not even occurred to me to ask.  This rendered children worthless on my world, but the Federation view had clouded mine, and I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel grateful.  I could see the reward in challenging definitions, and had built my former career on reinventing and stretching truths until they were unrecognizable.  Seeing Bashir select a gift for a family of this design brought some hope to me, some twisted and fanciful hope that he could, someday, consider me as a component of his own family without thinking twice about it.

The dull rhythm of the hemming shoved me into something of a daydream.  

I was visiting the Infirmary at Bashir’s request, to meet with the new parent.  The children were housed in sealed compartments, to regulate their breathing, but I could see they were wearing the suits I had made them.  Bashir led me inside and introduced me to a beaming Cardassian on a hospital bed.  It was the father, delightedly expelling his shame.

“I know they will be well cared for,” he said.  

Bashir was at my side in an instant, sliding one of the children into my arms.  I looked down at its face, flat and wet, but no questions occurred to me.  This exchange all seemed very natural, within the universe of the dream, and I made no attempt to disturb it.  When I was conscious of my visions, I was able to learn a lot from them.

“I was so relieved to hear there was still a Cardassian couple on _Terok Nor_ ,” the new father continued.  “I could not bring them home alone, of course."

I nodded once.

When Bashir returned again, holding the other child and gently patting its back, he was unquestionably a Cardassian, with the false chufa on his forehead painted blue.

⟡⟡⟡

Bashir brought the children out of the Quarantine as soon as he was able.  It took a week of repeated sterilizations and vaccinations and testing before we were able to meet them.  

I recognized the smaller child immediately, and was surprised to hear him confirm he felt the same.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his knuckles beneath his nose.  

“All’s forgiven, child,” I replied.  He did not look convinced.

Meanwhile, Bashir was coaxing the other patient into the house, around the piles of rubble.  They both joined us in the sitting area.  Parmak was beside me already, in one of the chairs.

“Cidel,” Bashir introduced, gesturing to the smaller one before turning to the other, “and Pazia.”

I expected to recognize the second figure as the other boy from the marketplace, and while the face and impression were the same, I was deterred by the use of a feminine name.  Not that any variable mattered to me a great deal, I just felt uncomfortable any time I had to question my own memory.

“Doctor Parmak,” Bashir continued, as Parmak stood to meet him.  He hesitated, upon reaching me, “And… Mister Garak.”

“I believe we know each other,” I said.  

“Of course,” Bashir said. “You’ll be well taken care of, here.”

I deeply admired the voice he used.  It was softened in the presence of children, and doubly so because they were patients.  He continued on, giving a quick verbal tour of the house, explaining where they could find cots for their temporary layover in our home.  Establishing an alternative site for our displaced but physically healthy citizens was still a priority of ours, but not much progress had been achieved yet.

Pazia and Cidel sat beside each other at the dining table, across from our usual places, and watched attentively as Bashir and Parmak sorted through our rations packs and the recipe files, respectively.  I was left to sit and study our guests while Parmak announced we would be having the book’s best approximation of tojal.

I watched the way their heads turned when the Federation-issue water faucet was flipped on.  Quickly, I stood and filled a cup with water for each of them, while my partners began work on their recipe.

“He didn’t mean to hurt you,” Pazia said, after a sip from her water.  “He wasn’t listening; he couldn’t.”

“I understand,” I said, borrowing Bashir’s tone.  “He is your brother?”

Pazia nodded, without looking surprised at my observation.

“I didn’t want them to take us in there,” she continued, voice confident and clearly backed by a good education, “into the Quarantine.  We were with a carer before, and her last wish was for us to stay safe.”

“It’s quite a story,” Bashir interjected, as if he would not mind hearing it again.

“You’ve found safety, child,” Parmak soothed. “Tell.”

“We took the transport from higher in the mountains,” she began, “thinking it would be safer in the city.  No one told us there wasn’t a city left.  Father sent us away with our carer; he hasn’t been well enough, especially with the dust. “

She seemed convinced that her father was no longer living, as she tapped her wrist twice on the table in memoriam, but she did not want to shatter this illusion for her younger brother.  I was sure he knew both of these facts, blinking hard and staring suddenly at the floor.

Pazia continued.

“We were digging in the streets for days, trying to uncover an orphanage site.”

Parmak and I had likely worked on the same site, toward the same goal.  I nodded solemnly.

“She couldn’t tear her mind from the work, our carer.  She feared there were children even younger than us buried there, all alone, but as much as we helped her dig, we never saw them,” Pazia shook her head and sighed. “It was not good for us, and I told her so.  She agreed to release our custody if I could promise we would stay together.  And we have.”

I had heard of several civic buildings collapsing completely, and figured this orphanage was on the list.  I said nothing.  It was worthless, trying to tell a lonely child that she still had parents and a devoted caretaker, when they were not the same people she once knew.  I knew this feeling well; it was like returning from the Institute and finding my supposed father frail and in denial of his identity.  He was not the same to me, and all my past memories were rewritten by a shaky hand.  

“Pazia has good instincts for safety,” Bashir explained.  He set a communal plate in the center of the table, and Parmak distributed bowls and utensils to each of us.

I gestured for the children to serve themselves, first, but Bashir intervened and scooped up their portions for them.  I wasn’t sure if being overbearing to patients was a good or bad habit of doctors, in general, but the children seemed to enjoy the attention.  I guessed they were around eight and twelve years of age, and knew I could consult their files later if I really needed to know.

“I wanted to stay out of the Quarantine.  I cut my hair and took a boy’s school tunic from the rubble, so no one would question me or worry about me or take Cidel away from me.  But Doctor Bashir let us stay there together - he checked on us every day.”

It was an unfortunate truth that female children were found more prominently in state-run facilities than males were, though I never understood why.  Pazia did not seem to, either, and I admired her ability to accept and adapt to truths beyond her control.  It was a shame our current political climate did not offer her a chance to further her education, as she had made promising progress so far.

“I thought you and Mister Garak would get on fairly well, Pazia,” Bashir said, catching this look in my eye.

Pazia swallowed her first bite of stew before smiling at me.

“I expect so,” I said.

⟡⟡⟡

“Why didn’t you return my communiques?” I asked Bashir one evening.

Parmak was away to collect supplies from a neighboring district, offering the two of us ‘an _opportunity_ to understand each other.’  I still did not completely trust the word.

My timing was questionable at best; we were already settled into our bed for the evening, with Bashir draping a hand over me and tucking my hair out of my face with the other.  The timing of his return had been questionable, too; he arrived soon after Parmak contacted the station.

“I read them all,” he said, in an evasive tone he could have only learned from me.  “Some of them twice.”

“Yes, and…?”

“I didn’t know what you wanted me to say back, Garak,” his breath ended in a laugh, like I was asking him obvious questions.

Anything.

“At the very least,” I said, “you could’ve sent lies.”

“I don’t think that would’ve done any good.”

His hand crept down beneath the blanket, and I tensed until he merely caught my hand and dragged it back up.  They ended up clasped together at the base of my pillow, catching breaths from both of us.

“I drafted probably a thousand responses, but I thought they’d all give off the wrong impression.  They’d leave me all alone up there, and you laughing yourself to sleep, hearing I fancied you.”

“I deeply enjoy that phrase of yours,” I said, and it was true.

“The point is,” playfully, he nudged my arm, “I thought about what you said, about the dream you had, and when Parmak wrote me to tell me you couldn’t even _sleep_ anymore… I knew I couldn’t just write to you.  I knew you needed an answer from me, and you needed me to give you one in person.”

“As I remember, you did a lot of crying.”

“That’s part of it too,” he admitted, voice softening with every word.  “When it was just typeset letters, it didn’t seem real.  But when I was walking here, seeing the rubble and the mask and your garden, breathing in the dust I’d dismissed as one of your overdramatic inventions, it _was_ real.  And I didn’t have the words for any of that; I just had the feeling.”

I moved my unoccupied hand to grasp his shoulder, then I pulled him closer to me.

“I have seen nothing so beautiful,” I assured him.  “I didn’t deserve a moment of it.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Mmm,” I said.  My voice was flat, but I maintained my smile.  Just as Palandine taught me years ago.  If I made him feel comfortable, he would continue.

“It was difficult,” he spoke quickly, as I predicted.  “Imagine being faced with someone you never thought would reciprocate your feelings - someone you ignored for what could have been the better part of your relationship - and trying to put your feelings into words, still unsure what you’ll get in reply.”

“Oh, but Doctor, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now.”

⟡⟡⟡ 

I had refused to open the downstairs living quarters.  I wanted no part in clearing them, or even in remembering they existed.  Parmak knew better than to suggest we use these in construction of our local Asylum zone.  

Even when Bashir first arrived, he slept on a cot in the corridor near the staircase.  The doors were shut and presumably locked, and I requested they remain that way.

Instead, we slowly began work on clearing a former storefront of debris.  The walls were intact, and we hoped some of the remaining products could prove useful.

Most of it, however, was found to be dust.  I would have laughed, had I been able to breathe without assistance from a series of hyposprays.

Bashir shoveled through it with determination Parmak and I had lost years ago, dumping piles of it onto a transporter pad, to be ejected from the atmosphere.  He stopped to dab the sweat from his brow, and when he dropped his shovel, it clanged against a box.

Parmak made a gracious motion with his arm, inviting Bashir to step aside while he dealt with the artifact.  

“What is it, Kelas?” he asked, delicately, like speaking otherwise might disturb it.

Parmak glossed over the instruction label and chuckled to himself.  The box was much newer than Bashir feared; nothing valuable had been broken, nothing dangerous displaced.

“Cosmetic oil,” Parmak read.

As usual, Bashir turned to me for cultural translation.

“Like a lotion?”

“Paint,” I said.

Parmak opened the box and removed a smaller glass cylinder from inside.  He twisted the lid off of this and set it on the floor.  We gathered around him, kneeling on either side to study it.

Also in the box was a thinner vial used for holding water, a palette knife for removing the paint from its tub, and a brush for applying it.

“Oh,” exclaimed Bashir, once he was able to see the paint unobstructed.  “The blue.  Of _course_.  I’ve seen this before.”

Parmak and I looked at each other, and decided Bashir meant he had seen it in use, not in its simplest form.

“You used to wear this sometimes, Garak,” he began sounding less sure of himself, “Didn’t you?”

“I’m honored to hear I’m connected to your strongest memory of it,” I said.  “You’ll find it is much more frequently used by Cardassian women.”

He grinned at me, then scooted in closer to study the paint.  He looked ready to scoop some up on his finger, but Parmak caught his hand.

“That wouldn’t come off for a solar year of yours,” Parmak cautioned.

“It’s diluted with water or lacquer,” I explained, “and even then, it’s meant to be worn for weeks at a time.”

He asked if it had any practical health benefits, or if its use was purely cosmetic.  I shrugged, and Parmak knew nothing either.  

“It was, as I understood it, a sign of enlightenment,” Parmak observed. “The brighter blues demonstrated a higher understanding, a greater capacity for knowledge.”

“It connected women and propelled them into our more technical careers,” I said.  It seemed true, but I really didn’t know for sure.  Most women I knew wore it, and worked in dignified positions.  

Bashir looked thoughtful.

“Do you think it would help with the reunification process, if we were to start using it again?”

He knew that political symbolism and strong imagery were important components to our society and, therefore, to our identity as Cardassians.  Parmak carried topics like this over their dinner discussions, which I was content to quietly observe.  I was amazed at how often they agreed, and how hollow I felt as a result.  Never jealous or insulted, just… empty.  Exhausted.

“What’s the saying?” Parmak also turned to me for translation, “There is no harm in an attempt?’”

“Why not,” I said.

Once Bashir was satisfied that his participation would not be considered offensive, Parmak packed the vials and application tools away in his shoulder bag.  Parmak tried to relate it to non-Bajorans adopting ear-cuffs during their festivals; it was accepted when practiced in good faith, if not complete religious faith.  He could participate in the movement he designed in whatever way he felt would be most helpful.

We cleared the rest of the dust with a sense of anticipation brewing between us, and agreed to start our subtle statement the moment we arrived home.  As we walked together, I volunteered to go first, but did not clarify whether I meant sitting and letting the others practice on me, or the opposite.

Parmak retrieved a water ration from our storeroom before meeting us in the bedroom.  Bashir set up a folding mirror on the workstation and helped me arrange all of our chairs around it.

“I’ve never done this before,” Parmak admitted.  

I was not as surprised as Bashir was.  It was one of many traditions I had uprooted in order to gain a better understanding.  Anyway, I found the application process to be a soothing use of my free time on the station, and thought the end result was equally enjoyable.  I would have been willing to fabricate an explanation, of course, but no one ever asked for one.

Parmak worked a small scoop of the paint into the entire packet of water, swishing back and forth and watching the color lighten.  When he was satisfied, he poured some into the vial, and promised to sit still when I took this from his hand.

Bashir took the chair between us and held the makeshift palette.  

“I haven’t done this in years,” I said, hoping it would make us all feel more confident, united in our lack of practice.

I began to wonder, instead, how needlessly intimate I could make this encounter.  It was a habit I had given up on breaking.

“You can close your eyes, if you’d prefer,” I assured Parmak. “I’m afraid you’ll flinch if you see the brush.”

He complied, but even with his eyes shut, he drew his head back the first time the brush made contact.  The water must have been cold; I confirmed this by dipping one finger into it, then wiping the blue away on the inside of the box.

Gently, I cupped his chin in my hand, running my fingers over the ridges at his jaw to soothe him.  I drew the process out more than I thought was necessary, but I had only ever applied the color to myself.  In those cases, I was not deeply worried about the result, and could be as rushed or as meticulous as I wished.  

Bashir took the brush and cleaned it when I declared the job finished.  As he considered himself in the mirror, Parmak asked if the tradition still included highlighting a pattern on the neck scales.

I nudged Bashir’s chair forward to complete this part, to Parmak’s outspoken delight.  I’m sure the young - a term I now use in mere relativity - doctor’s hands were more steady than mine, and his movements more precise.  I watched appreciatively, complimenting him on this skill while Parmak nodded to agree.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the warmth of your breath,” Parmak added.  Bashir eventually decided to accept this as more well-deserved praise, smiling as he dipped the brush back into the vial.

Then he pressed his finger hard against the lowest scale he had painted, catching a drop that was threatening to roll beneath the collar of Parmak’s coat.  He dabbed this back against the offending scale, but his finger was still blue when he removed it, even though the exchange had been momentary.

“Here, Garak,” he said gently.  He reached out to me, pulling me closer so that we both leaned in, low in our seats.  Cautiously, his hand approached my forehead, and he drew soft circles inside the ridge there.

“Or,” I said, eyes surrendering shut in elation, “the warmth of your skin.”

All of our mouths were so perpetually dry, I could hear Bashir prying his lips apart, thinking of something to say.  Parmak beat him to it.

“It is amazing - isn’t it? - to self-regulate that sort of body temperature.  Why, your _mouth_ , Julian.  It’s the kind of warmth and softness we could only dream of achieving, even if we worked toward it all our lives.”

“I didn’t realize I was so special,” he said, in his own surprised variation of modesty.

“Even with both of us here to remind you?  I thought you must’ve outgrown being so… oblivious.”

“Maybe it _would_ be best for you to remind me again.”

When I opened my eyes, he was giving me a lopsided grin, challenging me, and Parmak was leaning over his shoulder to watch.

“But first, my dear,” I interrupted right when he looked determined to kiss me, knowing this would make him try harder later, “you’re in need of your markings.  Or have you changed your mind?”

“Of course not,” he said, struggling to hide his disappointment at the delay.  He scooted back in his seat and allowed Parmak and I to paint him; we silently agreed that we would take our time.

Between each application, I paused to swirl the brush in the water.  

“Will it take very long to dry?” he asked me, when I was looking away.

Parmak researched the answer directly, swiping his fingers down Bashir’s neck and checking them for transference.  

I caught the little spark in Bashir’s eyes and did my best to fuel it.  I took Parmak’s hand in my own and overturned it.  Blue.  

“On _your_ skin?  Not long at all, my dear.”

I pressed my lips to one of the false scales Parmak had drawn along Bashir’s neck, as if this would support my claim.  Parmak and I did our best to keep Bashir’s eyes shut, watching him intently between touches.  

By the time we moved to the mattress, we lost this game.  As I settled over him, he opened his eyes, touched my lips, and laughed.

“But once it _is_ dry,” he said, before pulling me down for a brief kiss, “doesn’t it stay on for weeks?"

  



	6. Opinions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bashir’s hearing had always been better than ours, and the advantage only became more obvious as we aged. This was usually why he chose to sit between us, so we could both catch sight of him turning to acknowledge sounds we were not yet aware of. This time, he alerted us to footsteps."

After a week, Bashir decided we looked like a series of watercolors, meant to be displayed beside each other in some expensive private collection.  I argued that the only marks we wanted to display were those on our foreheads.  The blue smudges were most noticeable over our lips, and those further down our necks and chests stayed hidden beneath carefully-selected collars.  The cold season was approaching, anyway, and I was happy to trim and tuck some of my thicker garments so they accommodated Bashir.

He continued his diligent work at the Quarantine, often perfecting formulas by himself at the dining table after his baths.  On one such evening, he seemed less enthusiastic than usual.

“I’d forgotten what it feels like to have a patient be afraid of me,” he admitted, when I slid into the seat beside him.  I arrived with the intention of kneading his shoulder, but instead folded my hands on the table.

Parmak, who stood at the replicator preparing a pot of red tea for us, turned.

“Well,” I said softly.  I met Parmak’s eyes for a moment, but he immediately cast his gaze to the floor, proving the point I wanted to make.

“I guess I can’t blame her,” Bashir continued, and I gave an apologetic glance to Parmak, to the space above his eyes.  

“What is her condition?” Parmak asked.  He set down the teapot and joined us.

I could tell Parmak was already making room for her in his heart.  His eyes flicked back and forth as he considered the afflictions she could possibly be suffering, and calculated how he could help her, even if it had to be indirect.  

“Postpartum psychosis,” Bashir said. “She couldn’t carry the egg to term; I’ve had to put it in stasis.  Of course she wouldn’t want to see me again, but I’m the only one _there_!”

Bashir scribbled over something on his PADD and started drawing the diagram again.  He had told us, several times, how he put in requests for a casualty crew assignment from the Federation, but these had not yet been granted.  I maintained the belief that the Federation didn’t like sending its citizens, much less its decorated officers, into dangerous situations, but I did not voice this to him.   Parmak advised me against doing so (‘Cardassia will not let _us_ in there either, will it, Elim?’ he countered.)

“We’re all very grateful for your help,” Parmak explained.  “You are the best thing that could’ve happened to us.”

“Well,” Bashir said, as I had done.  It was not an argument, but not acceptance either. “I’ll try telling her that when we have to meet for her lithium series.”

Defeatedly, he dropped his stylus and took the cup of tea Parmak slid toward him.  Parmak offered to go over the dosage simulations with him later, as well as help him sort through a database to find a surrogate carrier for the child.

“You can find help in other places,” I suggested, hoping I sounded neutral toward Bashir’s employer.  

“Yes,” Bashir said, “but she can’t.  I’m the bandage they’re trying to put on everyone, but half these people aren’t even bleeding.”

“If I can offer any indication,” I began quietly, “Doctor Parmak is an accomplished psychologist.”

⟡⟡⟡

“Garak,” Doctor Parmak said to me, when we were first reintroduced, “Elim, isn’t it?”

I tried to repress the obvious fact that I recognized him.  I would have identified his eyes from the grainiest of images, but now they were blinking at me as if I was the one out of focus.  I did not blame him for not looking directly at me.

We released our grips on each other’s arms and he made a welcoming gesture toward the Med Center, where his arm was the only effective door.  The building was hardly in acceptable shape - a row of staff lockers was the only visible wall, the ceiling was burned beyond usefulness, and some unidentifiable absorbent chemical oozed from exposed patches of the floor.  

“I may have… exaggerated the medical experience on my credentials,” I admitted, still feeling unworthy despite my desolate surroundings.

Indeed, a limited knowledge of field dressings - coupled with the ability to read others’ physical language with the sole intent of exploiting it in interrogation - hardly qualified me for any of the vacant positions.  I cited my years on the station as part of my informal training, and listed Doctor Bashir as a reference, gambling on the odds he would not answer any questions if Parmak found time to send them.  It was a sloppy act of defiance on my part, one I hoped might get Doctor Bashir’s attention, not Doctor Parmak’s.

I followed him indoors to an office I later learned he only held because it solidified his rank.  I’m sure he would’ve preferred working in any of the other rooms, with less walls and more swirling clouds of dust, among the citizens who needed him.  But what he needed, then, was to be listened to, and the office gave him that.

We sat down across from each other with a wobbly desk between us.  He offered me a glass of water.

I drank the entire thing before our discussion continued.

“You were recommended to me as the most,” he paused and thought for a moment, “meritable volunteer in the sector.  One who can devote himself - meticulously and completely - to a worthy cause, known for giving up only on himself.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, Elim - may I call you ‘Elim?’”

“I’d like that,” I said.  My undeserving name had not been spoken by a voice like this in years, and I took it as a luxury and a comfort.

“Well, Elim,” he began again, “it was not an accident, you being assigned to this unit, to my charge.”

My years of training prepared my response, with no intervention from any other part of me.

“I understand completely,” I said, assuming he had arranged the task solely to punish me for our previous interaction.  I knew he had not forgotten me, and it would have been foolish to accept this fact independently of his forgiveness.  

He drew his head back, surprised.  Mine, meanwhile, hung in shame, like I’d walked myself into this trap on purpose.

“Yes, Elim,” he said, “of _course_ you’re here to put that willpower of yours to good use.  I’m after your heart, in a way.”

I cleared my throat; it was like the sudden rush of water was choking me now, instead of the dust.

“I, uh, I have an autosuture that could be easily recalibrated from... textile to skin.  I know how to scan for lifesigns, and I’ve, um-”

I couldn’t tell whether or not he was enjoying this, watching me struggle to explain myself.  Until he took a shallow breath and spoke.

“The rest of what you’ll do can be taught, Elim.  You are able-bodied…?”

“I haven’t had an examination in years, but I would say so, yes.  I have not had a psychological evaluation in that time, either, and would be more concerned about the results of that.”

“Well,” he said again, voice so gentle I had to lean in and listen, “I’ve yet to meet a survivor who wasn’t in need of some help.”

I could tell, then, exactly why he had taken me in.  It was for my benefit.

Once I got to know him better, I looked forward to lecturing him on his motives.  I had a feeling this would not take long at all.

I wondered, also, if it was the boldly selfless who were drawn to _me_ , or the opposite.  Like we posed some unique challenge to one another, only completed by companionship.  Completed, but never clearly won, as I was certain all my previous partners (and yes, they all displayed these characteristics) kept scorecards separate from my own.  

⟡⟡⟡

I spent a good deal of my free time on maintaining the perimeter walls.  I only recall bringing Mila along with me on several of these occasions, when I thought I would have time to focus on him and otherwise clear my mind.

He walked in repeated circles over my hand, forcing me to turn it over so he would not fall off.  I sighed and shook my hand gently over one of the newly laid bricks and watched him dissolve into its texture as he stepped on.

I was successful in joining him - escaping my surroundings - and was surprised to feel someone’s hand on my back.  They patted twice, their fingers definitively spread.  

It was Eight, greeting me with my designation.  I figured this out before I turned around.

“You shouldn’t be working here alone,” he advised.

“You sound like One Charaban.”

“Not for a couple years, I hope.”

He grinned at me, and I realized I had not yet offered him a place to sit, or what was left of my water ration, or anything even remotely polite and gallant.

I also realized his arrival caused me to lose track of Mila, and tried to tell myself this may be the safest way to get rid of him.  I shook my head, annoyed, and welcomed Eight to sit beside me on the ground.

“Would you like my help?” he asked.

“Is that why you’re here?”

He sighed.  I could tell he was reaching deep within himself for the words, as they never occurred to him naturally.  He remained this way for a long time, but I continued focusing on him instead of my project.

 _I wanted to be sure you were well_ , he said this by placing one hand on my knee and drawing his fingers together.  

I did not have an answer for him, in any capacity.  

He stood and solemnly retreated, leaving me alone to dig Mila from the dirt.

⟡⟡⟡

“Thank you, Elim,” Parmak said, to every single brick I passed him.  I had to shake my head, fondly, and catch the smile he sent back.

The storefront project was progressing well, with Parmak and I working on it every night on our way home from the Center.  There had been a decline in building collapses (there were so few buildings left) so our focus moved from digging up bodies to mending bones and sending citizens home.  Sometimes with their identified dead, other times alone, but always with deeper problems we could not fix.  

Above us, two streetlights were in operation, along with a screen which now played only static.  The fuzzy grey light served to illuminate more than enough space around us, so we could continue our work well into the night.  It was uncommon for others to join us, but sometimes the sounds would call people into the street, and they often supported our cause and offered to help immediately.

On this occasion, Doctor Bashir joined us just before dawn.  The blue on his face glowed as he stepped beneath the streetlight, then knelt between us and collected an armful of bricks.  Parmak slid the basin of mortar toward him.

“And how are the children?” Parmak asked.

Pazia and Cidel, now affectionately ‘the children’, moved between our home and the shelter of a Nurse who had come directly from Bajor to assist Bashir at the Quarantine.

Her surname was Sona, and I learned she had just finished her qualifications and purposely missed her chance to seek a residency placement on Bajor.  Bashir tried to give a modest explanation, but Sona was apparently familiar with his name, some of his work, and eager to make a ‘more impactful difference’ than she could at home.  I knew better than to suggest to Bashir that he would have some competition.  

I found he was already aware of this, to some friendly and mutually-beneficial degree.  He helped Sona move into one of the repurposed offices at the Quarantine, where the children were, in his words, ‘just _astounded_ ’ to meet her.

“They may all come by in a bit,” Bashir sounded pleased. “Nurse Sona has them for the week.  She wanted to move them to the existing Asylum Zone, if we can’t get this finished in time.”

I nodded and so did Parmak.  Sona insisted she was safe traveling on her own, but as soon as she left the Quarantine, many citizens remained unfairly skeptical.  We had only a patch at the doorway to finish - and a locking mechanism left to install - before we could call this place complete and give them all somewhere truly safe to spend their time.

Bashir’s hearing had always been better than ours, and the advantage only became more obvious as we aged.  This was usually why he chose to sit between us, so we could both catch sight of him turning to acknowledge sounds we were not yet aware of.  This time, he alerted us to footsteps.

“Gul Madred?” I said to the approaching figure.  It was only a guess, but very few survivors could maintain his soldierly build.

I knew Bashir didn’t _need_ me to bar him with one arm, but I also knew he understood the more territorial instincts of my race.  Madred seemed too anxious to sit and talk, and my mind moved immediately to Bashir’s safety.  I tried making myself look taller, too, which Bashir would later point out with a lovesick laugh.  

“I hope our work didn’t wake you,” Parmak said, in a tone he learned from me.  It was slightly twisted up at the end, inviting the listener to make his own interpretation, irritating him into quick action.  Madred took it as sarcastic, as Parmak must’ve intended.

“Shh,” I said to him.  I could not keep Madred oblivious to our relationship forever, but I could certainly try.  What morally superior man wouldn’t silence a lesser one?

Madred glared down at me, refusing to kneel, and summoning me to his level instead.  Bashir, sweet and foolish as ever, stood too, with a hand on my shoulder as if that would stop me.

“So he’ll be able to vote, then, will he?” Madred crossed his arms, and tipped them both dismissively toward Bashir.

“No one said anything about voting,” I assured him.

“I know you, Garak,” he shook his head, like this fact alone was a great disappointment, “I know your language, now.  What you _say_ has never mattered.”

He uncrossed his arms for only a moment, to draw circles around my face with one finger.  

“I see what’s going on with this.  I see it everywhere.  Branding people as ‘enlightened’ and stacking their votes on your side.”

Of course, the blue was wearing off of our lips fastest, but I knew it was still visible there.  I folded mine together and hoped this would be ignored, or better, interpreted as defeat, while Madred continued baring his teeth.

“It isn’t a formal movement,” Bashir tried to help. “Anyone who expresses an interest is welcome to participate, regardless of affiliation.  It has nothing to do with the new Council.”

Madred did not seem satisfied, but he never did.

“That may have been true with its inception,” he sighed, “but it’s no longer under your control.  I think you’ll find that’s an unfortunate side effect of the democracy you’re infecting us all with, Mister Bashir.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, seeing you side with these people, Garak.”

I looked him over, eyes darting up and down.

“I think you should go, Madred,” I growled.  I felt Bashir’s fingernails driving into the scales at the base of my shoulder.  It felt like he was pressing buttons in order to control me, as if he wanted to seize Madred, but he couldn’t.

I could.

I crossed my hands at the base of his neck and forced him against the wall we had built, hoping he appreciated the depth of his predicament.

“I regard _Doctor_ Bashir’s opinion much higher than yours.  You won’t find any allies here; go home.”

“I wonder how many times you had words like that spat at you, Garak,” he said, amused.

I shoved him away.  He stumbled, but ultimately turned and ran.  As soon as he was out of sight, both my doctors began tending to imagined wounds.  Parmak checked my pulse while Bashir apologetically patted my shoulder, rubbing over the area he had gripped too tightly.

“It doesn’t feel any better to say them,” I decided.

⟡⟡⟡

It happened frequently on the station, long before the Federation arrived and through my last days there.

Dukat, of course, was less kind and more liberal in his use of the expression.  I was relieved when the Federation replaced him with someone less invested in my history.  

I remained convinced that some of my memories were incorrect, installed in my device as a condition of my exile.  Many of the preceding days were hazy, and I would not put the practice past Tain.  I worked hard on trying to rewrite these under the cover of my sewing projects, but I ended up spending most of my time in my quarters with a case of kanar, until even more of my memories seemed like convincing inventions.  I became frustrated with myself, and made no further attempts to distance myself from the Federation officers.

Embarrassingly, I had a difficult time understanding - recalling - why the Bajoran travelers might distrust me.  Those who didn’t avoid me acted with hostility, so I learned only to engage them in public places where I might find protection.  

I remember Odo, when he was only newly called ‘Constable,’ collecting me from a fight on the upper floor of Quark’s Bar.  He sighed for much of the walk to his office, and tossed a cloth to me before sealing the door to my cell.  I stared down at it and took a seat.

“Clean yourself up,” he said.  “I didn’t call for a doctor.”

“I appreciate that,” I nodded.  To my knowledge, every physician on the station had served against my kind on Bajor, and I had yet to meet a Bajoran who was truly capable of forgiveness.  Maybe I hadn’t been looking hard enough.

I shrugged and blotted the blood from my face.  I felt it oozing between my teeth, and inspected this area next.

“It’s not my place to say, of course,” the Constable began, “but I’m sure everything _would_ be easier if you went home.”

I held up the rag when I was finished with it.  Odo watched as I tossed it forward, and lowered the cell wall in time to catch it.

“I doubt I’ll ever hear that expressed so kindly,” I replied.

“Hmm,” said Odo.

We did not speak for the rest of the night.  The cell lights dimmed, and I watched as Odo settled in behind his desk and read through most of a novel on his PADD.  After the _exact_ prescribed sentence had passed, he opened my cell, stood, and escorted me to the door.

“Try to stay out of trouble today, won’t you?”

“Believe me, Constable, I’d rather not see you again any time soon.”

And this was absolutely true.  I wasn’t yet in a clear mental state, and I was afraid that if I looked any more composed, Odo would be interested in learning everything he could about me.  For now, I played the part of an intoxicated and politically-frustrated Cardassian; Odo had dealt with enough of those over the years to discount me.

As I walked out of his office and toward my quarters, I knew I had to do something to reinforce my memories.  My hand leapt desperately to my implant, clawing at it.  How dare it betray me when I needed it most?

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak was introducing the children to one of Bashir’s recipes for tea - something called _darjeeling_ \- when Bashir announced we would have a visitor that evening.  He had spent his day off sending messages on his PADD, and this guest was clearly the result.  A result he looked unreasonably proud of obtaining.

“Well,” he began, somehow managing to sound more satisfied than he looked, “I told you I knew the pilot on the Federation ship that’s arriving...”

“The artificial life-form,” Parmak confirmed, and the children were immediately intrigued.

“Yes.  We were talking about the Peace Delegation, and one of the officers aboard is _Vulcan_.”

None of us considered this more interesting than the arrival of an android.  Pazia even shook her head, clearly disappointed.

I returned to my place in the line we had formed on the floor; it had been our intention to spend the evening styling our hair, at Pazia’s suggestion.  Originally, she asked if she could try braiding Parmak’s hair, since Bashir kept hers cut to a length she reluctantly deemed acceptable for her disguise.  This had morphed into Cidel sitting in front of the hearth, sipping his tea, while Parmak combed back his hair and powdered it.  Pazia sat behind him, consulting a diagram and trying to replicate the image while _I_ turned the ends of her hair inward and forced them to stay this way.

“I’ve always been interested in Vulcan culture,” Bashir continued, moving past us toward the replicator, “and we’ve agreed that he might be better prepared for his opening remarks if he stays on the surface tonight, instead of on his ship.”

“Vulcans…” Cidel said softly.  

“We’ve never met a Vulcan,” Pazia provided, as translation.  Cidel did not speak often, but I found I understood him when I considered him as a young Eight.

“You’d never met a Bajoran, either, until Nurse Sona,” Bashir recalled.

“Bajorans featured heavily in our school books and curriculum,” Pazia said, in that charmingly matter-of-fact tone of hers.   _This_ reminded me of Bashir, and served as the foundation for the rapport I built with her.

“I didn’t know that’s all they looked like,” Cidel concluded.

Parmak chuckled and collected the comb Cidel had been holding, while he finished with the powder.

Bashir muttered something about not having a directly translated recipe for plomeek soup; I offered to help as soon as my task was complete, as I had both seen and tasted the meal before, and could probably list the ingredients from memory.

“Which ones are Vulcans, again?” Pazia asked.

“They look a lot like Romulans,” Parmak began.

“They’re known for their disciplined minds,” I said, with palpable jealousy.   
  



	7. Betrayals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The first thing I saw was a burst of color, so bright I could not accurately describe it. Gradually, this dissolved into smaller images, different memories and feelings, which had all blended together to form the original image. I inferred that this bright and indescribable color represented me, as a whole. I felt myself nod, then my attention moved to one of the fractals."

I gathered the necessary tools and components under the pretense of my new tailoring shop.  Before beginning construction on the triggering device for my implant, I was hoping confidence would win over my desperation, but it never came to be.

Instead, I took shaky steps back to my quarters one evening and slammed my collection of supplies on my dining table.  I sketched what I remembered of the device’s appearance on the thin paper I kept for making clothing patterns.  With this finished, the building commenced. 

I confirmed that the switch was functional before taking the final steps to making it operational.  When I triggered it, the device would emit a frequency my implant was susceptible to, along with a flashing light so I knew it was working even though I could not hear it.  Having seen it pass this test, I shut it off.

I tried to prepare myself for this final measure, but my breathing was labored and my eyes remained painfully shut.  I ignored these effects and focused on steadying my hands, guiding them to the back of my head.  One held it as steady as possible while the other led a laser scalpel toward the target.

 _This will replace the pain, Elim_ , I assured myself, and drove the mining beam into place.

I bit down hard on my tongue, to keep myself from screaming.  I tasted blood and felt hot, white light radiating from behind my eyes and into my line of vision.  No less shaky than before, I reached for the switch of the triggering device and flipped it on.  The light appeared and I released my hold on the laser.

I had successfully kickstarted my implant into the higher frequency range; it was now in my control.  I swiped my tongue over my palm and up my fingers to clear the blood away.  Where it ended up was not my concern.  I wiped it on my shirt, next, and prepared an autosuture to formally undo my suffering.

What I felt, now, was manufactured ecstasy.  It was made even better by the fact I did not expect it; I thought my own failure was more likely.  Instead of killing myself, I had extended my useful time on the station by _years_.

I hadn’t felt such a welcome betrayal of pain in almost as long.  And it had nothing to do with the implant.

⟡⟡⟡

I enjoyed carrying on two conversations with Pythas at once.  That was the best way to proceed, considering the years we’d spent apart and the deep comfort I took in renewing our relationship.  I found the depth of his gaze and the frequency of his blinking salacious, even as he went on discussing the poisonous flora and fauna of the rainforest.  

When he knew I would not retain anything further, he stood and led me to the door of his bed chamber.  

“You will not need to worry about me saying anything,” I assured him.  

“About?” he led, innocently.  He kept his hand over the door-sensor, leaving it open but not inviting me in.

I nodded, and he shut his eyes.  This was his way of agreeing with the plan I devised, whatever it was.

Gently, I gripped his shoulder.  

 _I will be right back_ , this movement said.

I retrieved two fabric scarves from my own chamber, then returned to his door and knocked twice on the frame.  Pythas approached slowly from the bed, where he had been smoothing the sheets, and opened his eyes.

“ _Regnar_ ,” he feigned surprise, as if I had stirred him from sleep, “what is it you want?”

I passed one of the scarves to him and borrowed the answer that always served to advance my rank within the Order.  Surely that’s what I was planning to do now, or was I really so desperate for physical contact?

“To submit,” I replied.

I heard the beginning of Pythas’s laughter, and he reached to tie the scarf around his eyes.  Mine, meanwhile, was fastened unceremoniously over my mouth.  

My plan was to have an enjoyable evening without organizational repercussions; Pythas could truthfully claim not to have seen me that night after he went to bed, and my constant desire to speak would be satiated either by the scarf or by other factors.  There would be no need for me to elaborate in my report, so long as our collective goal was achieved.  This would only bring us closer.

The room was small; Pythas did not need my guidance to reach the mattress.  He shoved me down so I was sitting on the edge of it.  I scooted back and pulled him down to join me.

I longed to speak, but could not allow myself to make any noise at all.  How much of our language could Pythas understand, though, if he couldn’t even see me?  I was determined this would be fun, but was becoming less sure it would be anything I originally wanted.  There was a need to be fulfilled here, of course, but I _wanted_ everything to feel different, and better, with Pythas.

I learned, very quickly, that I had underestimated the depth of the language we built with each other.  I thought I would have difficulty re-adapting to it after several years out of practice, but Pythas refused to let me think this way.

His fingers cascaded down the molting scales at my cheek, my neck, my shoulder.  They settled there and gripped tight.

 _I’ve missed you for so long_ , the touch said.

My hand grazed the base of his tunic, dragging it upward, making a soft mark with my nail along his skin.

_And just as long, I have wanted this._

I watched, wide-eyed, as he drove his lips to the base of my ear.  He bit down gently, presumably to confirm I would not make any noise, before increasing the pressure until I broke my promise. 

“I think you’re doing very well,” he whispered to me, when I expected him to abandon me completely.

I focused on dissolving away, preferably into the mattress, or better, into Pythas.

 _Soon_ , somehow he snagged this thought and replied by brushing his thumb over my lips.

He pulled away for long enough to finish undressing himself, as I had barely collected the fabric of his shirt at his collar with my one sloppy attempt.  I told him I would follow this example, patting my hand twice against his chest to convey my former designation and wistful composure.

When I repeated this signal, he returned to his previous position.  I enjoyed the feeling of static between our chests, even though our skin was cold.  His lips were not much warmer, as I felt them clasp over the fold of skin between my collar bones.  I suddenly felt embarrassed for not reciprocating, as if I must have seemed too overwhelmed to make a truly enjoyable partner.

All I could reach to kiss was the top of his head, so I did so, through fabric.  I moved my hands toward his waist, hoping I could better guide his movements.

I felt the white heat glowing behind my eyelids, burning them open, as I noticed Pythas moving to kneel over me.  His hands trailed down to my waist, over the ridges at my hips, drawing, stroking...

And then we were truly together, in the best approximation our anatomy allowed.  I made a small yelping noise from the back of my throat, but Pythas returned his mouth to my ear, humming against it to soothe me and confirm I was alright.

 _I am_ , I assured him, rubbing my sweating hand in circles at the base of his back.  

Without any interference from my implant, I could feel the initial pain dissolving into the wave of pleasure.  My wants and needs became a language foreign to me, but interpreted poetically by my partner.

Later in the night, after we were both satisfied, Pythas curled up against me.

I stroked his face and carefully unfastened his scarf.  Beneath it, his eyes were shut.  I admired his devotion, and was momentarily surprised that I had expected anything different.

He sighed and unfolded my scarf from my mouth, but I knew it was best for me to remain silent.  I rolled it open over my neck, to guard the newly-formed scales there.  

To occupy myself, I kissed his lips, soft and slow.

“I hope this will not be our only assignment together, Elim,” he said, after I pulled away.

⟡⟡⟡

Between us, Bashir and I were able to list the identifiable ingredients of the broth.  We began working through the recipe book to ensure the meal would be complete by the time our Vulcan guest arrived.  

Jokingly, Parmak made an offer to help, but Pazia was insisting on redoing the bun at the top of his new hairstyle.  Cidel, whose hair had been finished for nearly an hour, arrived in Parmak’s place.

Bashir gave him a bottle of powdered spices and a warning not to overseason it, as he was apparently guilty of doing.

“You know so much about Vulcans,” Cidel concluded.

“I spent a lot of time around them when I was younger,” Bashir explained. “There was a year I spent more time with the Vulcan Science Academy tennis team than with _anyone_ from my own class.”

I could see that he didn’t know what to do with the smile I gave him.  There was no translation for ‘tennis’ as either a word or a concept, and I expected this would be the first time Bashir was heard by all of us, at once, in his native language.  

I make these distinctions because Bashir, as a self-proclaimed student of alien cultures, was competent enough to speak an old, formal dialect with Parmak (which Parmak considered very romantic), and he _finally_ knew all he needed about our medical vocabulary to work without his translation device at the Quarantine.  Parmak adopted a few Federation phrases from me, which had no direct equivalent, and Bashir was always delighted to hear them.  The children were addressed strictly in Cardassian, except for the few times I mistakenly loaned a Federation word and had to explain myself.  

“ _Tennis_?” echoed Pazia.

“Oh,” Bashir began, “it’s a game.”

Another cloudy word, but getting better.

“You wouldn’t want to hear me explain it,” Bashir said, laughing slightly, “it’d take _hours_.  I’ll have to just show you sometime.”

Cidel seemed satisfied with the mystery of it, and returned to stirring spices into the pot.  

Ambassador Taaven arrived at our door after the moons had risen, and declined our handshakes as Bashir had foretold.  Instead, he gave the traditional Vulcan gesture and followed Bashir’s lead to the common area.  The children were seated at the low table there, engaged over a simplified kotra board, but both stood to acknowledge our guest.

“I appreciate this opportunity to meet your family, Doctor Bashir,” Taaven said, in a way that made me trust every word.  Even ‘opportunity,’ but especially ‘family.’

“And _we_ appreciate your help in establishing a new government,” Bashir replied, voice smoother than I had ever heard.  “Whatever we can do to assist you, please just ask.”

Taaven nodded and accepted the chair Bashir offered him, along with introductions to myself, Parmak, and then both children.

This was as long as my composure lasted.  If I weren’t so out of practice, I’m sure I could have devised a strategy even after mistakenly speaking, but at the time I didn’t know what to expect.

“I’ve never been studied by a Vulcan before,” I said, and I felt Parmak’s hand running along the seat to reach my back.  “If this is an unfairly intimate question, I apologize.”

Taaven thought for a moment before conjecturing.

“You are referring to the meeting of our minds, Mister Garak, are you not?”

“I am.  I expect this would provide a new perspective to your research.”

Taaven declared the request ‘reasonable,’ which I considered high praise, and gave a brief explanation of the process.

“It has been used in the past by Vulcan diplomats,” he continued.  “It establishes a deep understanding in less time than standard conversation.”

It took until this point for me to notice the children were gaping up at us.  Bashir and Parmak were watching, displaying shades of concern and anticipation.  I hoped our show would not disappoint.

Parmak traded places with Taaven, so he and I could sit on the lounge beside each other.  I followed Taaven’s instructions closely - turning in to face him, slowing my breathing, and alerting him when I felt ready.

He set his fingers in a pattern over my face and then spoke, but I did not hear him.

The first thing I saw was a burst of color, so bright I could not accurately describe it.  Gradually, this dissolved into smaller images, different memories and feelings, which had all blended together to form the original image.  I inferred that this bright and indescribable color represented me, as a whole.  I felt myself nod, then my attention moved to one of the fractals.

It was everything I knew of Bashir, all filtered through the blue of his usual uniform.  I experienced it all at once - the joys of our tangled courtship, the painful depth of the time we spent apart, and every lesson we ever exchanged.  A figure of me appeared, in front of this blue projection of my partner, and had to be led away by a hand, just out of frame.  It was faintly rosy and reminded me of Palandine, but I could not be certain.

Then Bamarren, in green.  Everyone I knew there, and everything I learned.  The fractal concluded as an image of Mila, which surprised me, and he shifted himself into the next color.

Red, and a regretful feeling, accompanied Parmak’s appearance.  I felt myself, outside of the vision, nearly falling forward.  I felt overcome by the need to apologize to him; I could not recall if I had ever clearly done so.  Of course I had, but I feared it was smothered beneath some disgusting moral superiority, and the belief that I was correct in all I had done to him.  

It was dark for a moment, and I was aware of Taaven pressing his fingers harder against me, bending down the ridge over my eye.  Conditions of the vision did not improve, despite his best effort.

Everything around me remained dark.  Slowly, I could discern a pile of children in front of me, as tall and precarious as the rubble monuments in the front room of my home.  Pazia and Cidel were recognizable for a brief time, but I was too overwhelmed by the concept to keep my focus on them.  Everyone in the pile was breathing - I could see them rising and falling together - and this reassured me until the blackness returned.

Some premonition blurred by me, in purple.  I felt that I would see Tain next, and it took all of my mental willpower to refuse.  I saw myself instead, on my knees with my head hanging over my chest, my breaths loud and shallow.  The hand appeared to reassure me, and I could not tell who it belonged to.  Maybe it did not matter.  

Taaven backed away from me and told me immediately not to feel embarrassed.  Apparently I was panting and crying outside of the vision, too.  Bashir was kneeling before me in an instant, pressing some capsule beneath my lip, promising it would dissolve in enough time to counteract any effects of the nausea.  Parmak knew to maintain his distance when I was like this, and part of me wished Bashir would accept this lesson without damaging his pride or diminishing his concern.

“Space and time,” Parmak said gently.

Bashir sighed and obliged, going to stand at Parmak’s side instead.  With these two provisions, I was able to recover on my own.  Taaven looked apologetic.

“The practice is not advisable with survivors of trauma,” he explained.  “Memories often surface based on their significance.  It was my mistake; I should have explained this possibility before we began.”

If Parmak could find anything in me to forgive, let alone love, I could endure this.  It was no worse than the revised holoprograms, I told myself, and Bashir thought those were therapeutic.  I expected Taaven would disagree.

“I found it beautiful, in a way,” I said, but the argument was lost on my logical guide.

“I can remove your memory of it,” Taaven offered.  “It is not common, but would be acceptable in this situation.”

As I had in much of my life, I found myself caught like a magnet between two opposing poles.  I looked to the closest manifests of these, Parmak and Bashir, but this only prolonged the struggle.

“Remove it,” Bashir offered, always in favor of ending suffering immediately.

“We can work through it,” said Parmak, at the same time.

They looked at each other and came to a silent agreement before I otherwise circled the drain in my mind to reach a decision.  

“We _will_ work through it,” Bashir confirmed.

“I have no doubt,” I said.  

Taaven kindly pulled his hand away, and folded it along with the other in his lap.

In the overwhelmed embarrassment Bashir never managed to outgrow, he invited Taaven to join him at the dining table for dinner.  The children followed, still quietly stunned, only whispering to Bashir around the table to ask if I would be alright.  I called back that I felt better already.

Parmak remained behind with me, standing at the same time I did, acting as distantly reassuring as he could manage.

I leaned in close to him, urging him not to maintain the gap.

“You can touch me,” I said.  “I think I would like that.”

He held my face in his hands and shut his eyes in resignation.

“You are so much braver than I knew, Elim,” he praised.

“I like when you call it that.  Bravery,” I forced myself to laugh, but I sounded more like I was gasping.  I calmed myself and tried again, “It’s not that.  It’s this dependence I’ve built on pain.”

“That was built _for_ you,” he said, “and installed, and deactivated.”

No words came to me.  

He led me to the privacy of our bedroom, and sat down beside me on the edge of the bed.  I protested when he removed his hands.

“Julian and I won’t give up on you, you know.  Can you rely on that, instead?”

Then he met my eyes, and I found myself nodding and gasping again.

“I am _so sorry_ , Kelas,” I said.  

“I’ve always _known_ that, Elim.”

“I gave you three years in that camp, you’ve never said a--”

“I won’t speak of it, and you need not speak of what you just saw.”

“But I _know_ what must’ve happened there, what you were forced to do to get out alive.  It’s so easy to imagine; I do it all the time.”

“It’s easy to imagine what you’ve just seen too, Elim,” he said calmly.  “I see the result and work backwards.”

This trick did not work on Parmak; he was more kind and selfless than any former prisoner had any understandable reason to be.  To express this, I fitfully shook my head.

“I feel very empty, now,” I said, in a tone that I hoped would reflect this.  “The visions did not hurt me, they drained me.”

“You’re working through the feelings already,” Parmak said.  “I knew you could.  Now, how shall we fill you back up, Elim?”

“I need you to not let go of me.”

Parmak nodded slowly in acceptance.

“And you did not need to touch me at _all_.  You remember...”

I couldn’t understand why Parmak would subject himself to his most painful memories.  The tactic was usually mine, and I tried to disguise it as something cleansing.  

“Why are y--”

“It worked out for the best, didn’t it?  What would happen to us now, if I couldn’t bear to touch you?”

I rested my head on his shoulder, so he would not need to look at me while we embraced. 

“I wouldn’t even want to guess,” I said.


	8. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s very kind, but not entirely necessary; I would be happy to wait until you return… Julian,” I said, unsure of what else I could romantically call him in such company. He took it as I intended, eyes sparkling.

Bashir joined us later, telling us the rest of the household had retired to sleep - the Ambassador on the cot in the corridor, and the children on the lounge in front of the hearth.  The front door, he assured us, was shut and locked.

For all this time, Parmak had patiently put up with my fussing and had not removed his hands from me.  When Bashir met us, we were seated on the bed, leaning against the wall.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“I can always find a use for your hands, my dear,” I answered.

Parmak directed him to rub my back, breaking contact as little as possible.

“Now you weren’t _hurt_ , were you?” Bashir asked. “I’ve never heard of mind-melds causing physical pain to participants.”

“I hate to disprove your theory, my dear.”

“ _Garak_ , you--?”

“He was not hurt,” Parmak interrupted.  “It just made him feel - how did you phrase it, Elim?   _Empty_? - in need of reassurance.  We are filling him up again.”

“I see,” Bashir nodded, relieved, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

His head rested on my shoulder, and he spoke reassuringly against my neck.  I did not understand the words he used, just the feelings.  I suspected this was how he regarded me for much of our early relationship - language that was unintelligible unless he learned to read the emotions I was displaying at the time.  He was still improving, now with the added benefit of Parmak’s guidance.

I pulled Parmak in closer, so they could both hear my attempts at whispering.

“I want you,” I managed to say.

Parmak’s sigh sounded content, until it dipped down at the end.

“When we have the household to ourselves,” he promised, “I would like nothing better.”

Bashir seemed to agree, pressing his lips deeply against my neck.

I found sleep to be a surprisingly simple task that night, and woke much later than usual.  Parmak was still beside me, or more accurately _around_ me, when I sat back against the headboard to study my surroundings.

I thanked him for his perseverance and patience; he nodded sweetly, blushing and tucking a braided strand of hair behind his ear, and said the pleasure was his.

Bashir was by the replicator again, overseeing a pot of tea to ensure it reached the correct temperature before passing it politely toward Ambassador Taaven.  The children were sitting across from him at the table, trying to lure him into a discussion.  Cidel was still occupied by thoughts of tennis, which Taaven vaguely dismissed as something he lacked the coordination for, while Pazia asked him about the Science Academy, another topic he had no firsthand knowledge of.  Bashir directed them all to the kotra board, instead, and poured their tea while Pazia explained the regulations.  I had to second-guess the pride I was feeling, watching this unfold.

“We are very fortunate,” Parmak said.  “It would only require enjoinment for us to officially foster or adopt them, Elim.”

“I know that,” I muttered; I did not wish to discuss it further.  

Bashir motioned for us at the table, so we came and sat and accepted the tea he poured.  He drank his in a rush then stood and patted my shoulder.

“Nurse Sona will be here to pick them up before her shift,” he explained, setting down his empty glass.  “I’m escorting Ambassador Taaven back to the _Enterprise_.  I thought you two could do with some time alone.”

I worried that I had made Bashir feel excluded the previous night, and I seized his hand before he could remove it from my shoulder.

“How thoughtful,” said Parmak, drawing from all the stories I shared with him about Bashir on the station.

“That’s very kind, but not entirely necessary; I would be happy to wait until you return… Julian,” I said, unsure of what else I could romantically call him in such company.  He took it as I intended, eyes sparkling.  

“It’s fine,” he said quickly.  “I made arrangements to meet my friend, Commander Data, for breakfast.  I should be going now.”

Parmak set down his drink.

“Do androids eat?” he asked, amused enough to attract the interest of both children.

“Well, not exactly,” Bashir admitted, “it’s more so we can catch up.”

⟡⟡⟡

“Thank you for meeting me, Constable,” I said.  The intent was to make him feel like this get-together required a sacrifice on his part, even though we had agreed on the time and place weeks ago over a communique.  

“It’s no trouble,” he said, taking his seat.  Perfect.

My lunches with Bashir were debates; my breakfasts with Odo were games.  I established this after Bashir presented the concept to me one day, and argued their merits not just as competitions, but as enjoyable ways to stay in practice.  And it was obvious to me that I needed some practice.

We met in the replimat at 0400, a fortunate gap between the beginnings and endings of Federation shifts, as well as the soonest Odo could reform himself after work the previous night.  Additionally, the lights were still dim at this hour, and many of the surrounding shops were closed.  I enjoyed the privacy and Odo’s devotion to his commitments, even when they were so unimportant.  

I returned with two trays, identically filled and arranged.  While I stirred perhaps too much sweetener into my tea, Odo sorted through his meal with the fork he was provided.  

Apparently, he had given up on eating years ago, but was now happily re-engaging in his abilities.  As I ate, he would set his hand beside each component of his breakfast and give his best approximation.  The study was conducted quietly; I tried not to comment on it.  He did not seem to regard me as a threat to him in his various states, anymore, but neither of us could deny how it made him vulnerable.

Still, it was his way of fitting in while I ate and talked him through the tastes I experienced.  It was the only door I could open.

“It doesn’t _look_ sweet,” Odo appraised the spoonful of _applesauce_ I presented him with.

I swallowed and asked if he might connect to it better on a different level.  The texture, the color.

“I hope you don’t misinterpret my intentions,” I added.  “It’s not my goal to study you, but to open these studies _to_ you.”

Odo gave a dismissive huff.

“What?” I asked.  I knew precisely what he meant.

“It’s just that I’ve _heard_ that one before; not wanting to _study_ me.”

“Well of course you have.  You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t.”

He was quiet for a moment, indecisive.

“Are you trying to get me to tell you about my past?  Because the records are public, and I’d rather not discuss it with _you_.”

“I wouldn’t dream of _forcing_ private details from you, Constable.  Anyway, I’ve read them.”

“And?”

“And,” I said, gesturing across the table to finish my thought.  

“Here we are,” he understood.

The reports, to me, were a unique form of narrative, similar to a human novel but lacking an ending.  How fortunate, that the ending was sitting across from me, curling his hand into a Betazoid pastry.  He did not look up from his progress, even when I spoke.

“I never formed an opinion on which party treated you better, the Bajorans or the Cardassians.  I’d be very interested in your perspective.”

“Which treated me better?  Is that a joke?”

I continued staring expectantly at him until he spoke again.

“I said I’d rather not discuss it--”

“--With _me_ , I know.  But I assure you, I’m entirely impartial.”

“Are you,” he muttered, clearly not believing me.

“I know you borrowed customs from both, which I find fascinating.”

“Did I,” he said, in the same flat fashion.  

His approach outlasted my patience; I struggled to play the game offensively when I barely understood the preferred rules.  Knowing Odo, I would be subjected to every rule available.

“If your name really did offend you,” I led, “you would’ve changed it by now.  You can’t blame my kind for that.”

“To be honest, I didn’t expect you to say anything about it, or maybe I would have.”

“You didn’t expect me to understand my own language?” I laughed, “Now, Constable…"

I loved to see him looking unsure of himself, considering we were in a safe setting.  

“No, I’d expect you to understand it, just not…” his translator failed him (he must have been searching for a Bajoran term to prove his point) and he had to clench a fist to convey his frustration “ _understand_ it.”

“Oh, but I understand perfectly.  It seems you haven’t read as many of _my_ files as I have yours.  We have a lot in common, Constable, you and I.”

He was forming his fist into a folded napkin, as if the motion soothed him.  He looked back at me, catching me in the impossible depth of his gaze.

“Go on,” he drawled.

“There’s no shame in being called ‘Nothing,’” I proceeded, “Things _grow_ from nothing.  Flowers from seeds, plans from ideas, love from a glance.  Do you know what name they gave me?” I put my hand to my chest, “ _Ten_.”

“Ten?”

I nodded.

“Out of ten possible designations.  I was given the last and the lowest.”

“Was that a,” he began, uncomfortable with the idea of needing to comfort me, “ _fair_ assessment?”

“Yes,” I replied, immediately. “I was given the lowest expectations to exceed, and I failed to do so.”

“Here you are,” Odo surmised.

“Yes,” I said, taking a bite of the pastry, “doing all I’m capable of.”

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak and I did take advantage of our time together, although perhaps not in the way Bashir imagined.

He arranged a series of appointments for the next morning at the Center while I read through a set of fables Bashir recommended for the children.  We did this during a bath, where Parmak switched on the heaters in the bathtub walls, so we could stay there comfortably even after the water began to cool.  He spoke of softening our skin, hoping this would make our plans for the evening more enjoyable for our human counterpart, who had complained about the grating nature of our scales on each of our previous attempts.

Parmak set his free hand on the ledge and invited me to join him there.  When I did so, he tenderly intertwined our fingers.  

“I was afraid I made him feel worthless,” I admitted, for at least the third time since he left that morning.

Parmak made a clicking noise with his tongue.

“I don’t believe that is so,” he replied, in the formal cadence he usually saved for Bashir. “He would have told you; you claim humans are direct and indelicate, at times.”

I thought about this quietly, until the plot of the story and the warmth of the walls were not sufficient to distract me.  Uncomfortably, I stood, and Parmak followed me to the opposing side of the chamber, shaking the water off of himself as he went.  

I sighed.

“Then I am afraid he did not understand me correctly, and that he never has for as long as I’ve known him.”

I set down my PADD and exchanged it for a satin stole to cover myself with.  Meanwhile, Parmak searched for a vial of cream to further his goal of softening our skin.

He scooped some cream onto his finger, then worked this in circles over what he could reach, unobscured, of my chest.

“You know that’s untrue, Elim.”

He peeled back the collar of my robe and pressed his fingers beneath it; I offered neither assistance nor refusal.

“He has cared for you deeply, for many years.  You and I can see it in his face, his movements, in every decision he makes.  You, more than anyone, should know not to value words alone.”

“I never learn,” I offered, trying to laugh dejectedly.  

“In my opinion,” Parmak’s voice was calm, “it is much more likely that he simply felt overwhelmed.  I imagine the two of us can be a lot to deal with, especially for someone younger and less experienced.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

⟡⟡⟡

After our initial meeting, I found myself reading Bashir’s case-notes more immediately than any of the station’s security releases.  As a result of my obsession, I was able to learn of the Aphasia Virus before I left for my customary breakfast at the replimat, which, on that day, would have infected me.

I stayed in my room and sipped a glass of water I had replicated the previous evening, waiting to cast myself a useful role in the solution.  In the month since we’d met, Doctor Bashir had come to me for advice on a variety of subjects, most of which were his poorly-disguised attempts to glean information on the anatomy and ailments of my kind.  He wanted to be prepared for times I visited the Infirmary, he said, while I maintained I would avoid seeing him professionally at all costs.  If I remember correctly, the phrasing caused him to blush.

I was considering his expression at the time, too, while I stretched fitfully over my bed.  I recalled his face with too much clarity to consider taking myself further; I shook my head, reflecting shamefully on how far I’d fallen.  With my hands hanging aimlessly in front of me, I stood and paced the perimeter of my cabin.

For a moment, I considered obtaining some food from the affected machines before they were all discovered and decommissioned.  Some time away from my thoughts appealed to me.  I began typing a request for a meal from Quark’s (I came to a clandestine agreement with Rom where he would deliver my food to me on days I requested it in exchange for my occasional translation service on codes he intercepted.)  My progress was halted by a beeping sound, echoing from the central computer.  I expected it to be the climate control system, protesting my requests as it often did, but instead I found it to be a communique.

Doctor Bashir appeared on my video screen, sitting at his desk in the Infirmary with the station commander standing to one side, crossing his arms.

“Garak,” he began, only slightly tipping his voice to indicate a question, “I was wondering if we could get your help with something.”

“Doctor,” I said slowly.  I had made my move, and I left the next to him.

I watched his face; he was trying to hide the excitement he was feeling at this chance to play pretend with me.  Sisko probably would have scolded him if he saw it for any longer than it lasted.

“There’s been a virus outbreak,” he said, stuffing the words down quickly, “our working theory now suggests it was programmed by Cardassians.”

Even with minimal information on the situation, I knew this would be untrue.

“Maybe you could help us find a starting point?” he continued.

“Charming,” I said.  I thought I knew enough about the virus and about the heart in human symbolism to make my next play.  “Ventricles, continuously tighter.”

Bashir shrugged, wondering aloud why something created by my people would not spare us.  This was not even a fair critique of our defense systems - which would target anyone who deserved it - but Bashir wasn’t aware of that at the time, of course. 

“Leave it to a Cardassian to still sound intelligent when he’s aphasic,” Bashir resigned, leaving the final score to me.

“Potential,” I said, as if I meant ‘come and see me.’

Sisko stepped out of the frame, seeing no value in remaining.  Bashir leaned down and put his hand harshly in his hair.  

“Just stay where you are, Garak - if you can understand me - and I’ll be by as soon as I have the antidote.”

He ended the transmission, leaving me alone to chart the investigation’s progress for the rest of the day.  It was discovered to be a Bajoran creation, which I found simultaneously obvious and impressive, then news of the cure was posted soon after.

Bashir entered my room on authority of his medical override, talking to himself.  Or to me, safe in the knowledge I would not correctly process anything he said.  I smiled as I watched him; I would be pleased to see him breaking into my quarters under any circumstances.

“I thought I’d better visit you first,” he mumbled, “seeing as this thing was devised by Bajorans to use _against_ Cardassians… I came over as soon as I got my injection, so I may still be a bit out of sorts.  Now, how’s your fever?”

He set his hand on my forehead before dismissing this as ineffective and slithering to the back of my neck, instead.  A tricorder would have been more practical, but I did not protest.

With an endearing little sigh, he opened his medkit and increased the dosage of one of his hyposprays, which he then released against my arm.  I felt something like a spark over the pathways my implant otherwise managed, and drew my hand there out of habit.  My fingers twitched, momentarily overwhelmed by the sensation, and Bashir was quick to steady them.

“In any case, I’m glad you’re alright,” Bashir continued, setting my hand down at my side.  

“Doctor Bashir,” I exclaimed, as if his identity and intentions had _just_ become visible to me.

“Yes, Garak, it’s me.  Can you understand me?”

“Oh, perfectly.”

⟡⟡⟡

When Parmak was finished applying the cream to both of us, he refastened my robe and shepherded me to the bedroom.  We expected Bashir had gone to work after his breakfast on the ship, and would not be returning until his customary hour late in the evening.

“Julian, my dear?” Parmak ventured, when we were sure he had entered the house.  

We usually heard him shutting the door (he was the only one of us who did this regularly), but tonight we heard the unmistakable sound of his metal-plated case hitting the dining table.

“Coming, Kelas,” he replied, right before my paranoia kicked in to convince me there was a stranger in the house. “Is Garak with you?”

He stood in the doorway, after I told him I was present.  

“Good,” he said.  “I hope you two had a nice time together.”

He shrugged free of his Federation-issue lab coat, which he then halfheartedly folded and draped over his desk chair.  Parmak slid away from me, leaving a space between us for Bashir and patting it until he joined us.

“We always do,” said Parmak, tapping a reassuring pattern over Bashir’s shoulder.  “How was your day, Julian?”

He made an indecisive sound.

“Were you not able to meet with your friend?” I asked.

Bashir glanced at the ceiling in resignation.

“Well, that part of my day was quite nice, actually.  We were able to talk for awhile, and apparently the _Captain_ has written some techniques for getting over a difficult mind-meld; he’s happy to send them if you need them, Garak.”

“I’d be interested in reading them,” Parmak said.

I agreed.

“I wasn’t really able to focus on that, though, or at work.  I kept feeling like I needed to apologize to you.”

“To me?” Parmak and I said this at almost the same time, and Bashir just nodded.

“I _knew_ you weren’t trying to make me feel any less important to _you_ , Garak.  But I always worry I’m stretching my limits with the whole ‘be dismissive to your Cardassian partners’ thing, and just being outright rude.”

The clicking feeling in my head was imagined, of course, as I was free of any devices, but it registered an understanding nonetheless.

“ _That_ is exactly what I was trying to express, Kelas,” I relayed, excitedly tugging at his hand.  “That arrangement doesn’t suit us.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” said Parmak.  “At the risk of boasting, I would say we are three of the most compassionate people on the planet.”

“It isn’t boasting; there aren’t many to compete with,” I said.  I would not be included in this figure, if circumstances were different.

“Actually, Julian,” Parmak continued, borrowing one of Bashir’s favorite words, “Elim and I were hoping to apologize to _you_ this evening.”

“In what I would call a more human fashion,” I decided.

Bashir laughed to himself.

“Is that what all the perfume’s about?  And that _robe_ , Garak?  I’d expect you to have better taste.”

“I thought you might feel that way,” I conceded, “and I’d _expect_ you to help me out of it."

“He’s unbelievable, isn’t he,” Parmak spoke fondly, and joined Bashir in untying the silk.


	9. Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When we were free of the crumbling walls, and after I was convinced I had only managed to make this woman’s struggle - and therefore my work - more difficult, I noticed a shadowy figure approaching. I wiped my eyes harshly against my sleeve and caught sight of something shiny and metallic dangling from the figure’s ear."

The day began as usual, with Bashir trying to wiggle free of his place in the middle of the bed without waking us so he could leave for work.  He slept between us and let us both cling to him like a stone in a sauna; his protests about the heat and humidity - even in the current cold season - were not evenly matched to his fondness for us.  He enjoyed stroking Parmak’s hair, and often spoke about it in his sleep, while he tucked his head up against my shoulder and blessed me with each warm breath.

When Bashir remained in the bed, sitting and stretching his arms over his head, I realized something was different.  Parmak had departed already. 

“Did he say anything to you about it?” Bashir asked me, eyes still mostly shut.

I shook my head and got up to inspect the room for clues.  Parmak had made several mentions of going to the Civic Center and completing the reassignment documents for the children in our names, but I dismissed it every time he brought it up.  I felt uncomfortable with the responsibility, of course, due to my own murky family history, but I was also sure no one would be present at the Center who could complete the paperwork.  Twice I had volunteered to forge it, if it would make Parmak happy, and he laughed defensively both times.

I assumed this errand was the cause of his absence, until I found the communique he left open on Bashir’s PADD, which was always on and never restricted.  Mine was secured by a series of codes, increasing in their difficulty to the point I had to be fully awake to do any work on it.  We practiced opposite treatments of our devices and the front door, which I found momentarily amusing.

I read it aloud, as Bashir arrived to study it over my shoulder.

Elim - you can conduct all appointments today at the Center.    
Julian - I left you the new lithium capsules in your case.     
Home soon, don’t worry.

 _0_  - _Kelas_

He closed all of his communications with the oblong oval shape, borrowed from our punctuation symbols.  Bashir sometimes signed his with a line of Xs, and on times he wrote by hand, he would draw stylized hearts.  This was the best match Parmak had found for both the symbol’s meaning and its anatomical equivalent.  

“If you’ve started worrying about him already,” Bashir began, “I’ll try and wait ‘til after lunch.”

“Thank you, my dear.  I’m sure he’d appreciate us going in shifts.”

“I’ll send you anything I find between appointments, Garak,” he kissed my forehead, as his preferred way of saying ‘goodbye,’ and left for work.

I consulted the chart Parmak left of my appointments for the day, drawn in an oval, detailing patient information and ailments.  Most involved resetting broken bones, several were routine vaccinations, and one was an ultrasound.  As Parmak said, I was capable of doing all of this on my own, but I wanted to know _why_.

⟡⟡⟡

Bashir still had not found time to give us all a demonstration of tennis.  His first excuse relied on Nurse Sona being available at the same time, so she could apply her springball skills.  Then he said there was no good place to build a court.  In time, he got distracted by other games he thought we should learn first, ones which were more common and had a simpler set of rules.

He spent several days teaching one called ‘tag’ to the children, who were more content with his minimal explanation than I was.  

“You did not instruct them to hide?” I said to him, as if the fault was obvious.

“Well, no,” he said, “that’s a different game.”

Cidel dashed by our seats in the common area, trying to stifle both his excited laughter and his deep breaths as he approached the front door.

“Then it tests only one skill;” I decided, “whether or not you are faster than your opponent.”

“Right,” shrugged Bashir.

Pazia emerged from the corridor, glanced quickly in both directions, and then proceeded to the doorway.

“You should wait here for him,” I told her, though I don’t think she was listening. “He’ll wonder why he hasn’t been followed, and he’ll come back.”

Bashir gave me a sideways glance, but it didn’t matter because Pazia hadn’t returned to the room.

“It’s one of those things you only learn with practice,” he concluded, to deter any further questions from me.

“Everything is learned that way,” I said.

⟡⟡⟡

Between my two initial appointments, I was able to search the Center’s computer for Parmak’s whereabouts.  He usually inputted his schedule so I could read it, and he had not made an exception in this case, although he had left out more detail than usual.

His plans for the day placed him in Cardassia City, very possibly at the Civic Center completing paperwork, except that he had a meeting with another Med Center supervisor listed.

I had not heard her name before, either by Parmak’s admission or in my own research, and did not know what to think until I knew more.

As promised, Bashir forwarded me what he found.  It was exactly the same.

“Doctor Jessel?” he asked.

I shook my head at the communication screen.

“She’s a surgeon,” I read this directly from her file, and held it up to the screen, indicating her Institute of study.

“An obstetric surgeon,” Bashir clarified.  

I was surprised, having overestimated the time the reading should have taken him.  

“There isn’t a Quarantine in the City, though, is there?” he continued.

“No, there isn’t.  You’re doing a most efficient job of that on your own, my dear.”

He got lost in his own smile for a moment, until I had to curb the transmission on account of my next appointment.

“Maybe he’s off doing something romantic for us,” Bashir offered, in closing.  

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” but I was not entirely satisfied.

⟡⟡⟡

Before any talks of the Competition, my feelings about One Charaban were all related to intimidation.  I felt as though he was superior to me in every available way, and that he would have liked nothing better than to hear me admit these truths to him aloud, one at a time.

The tension carried by his presence cut noticeably through the air, which had, until then, been swirling idly between Palandine and I.  We sat in the secluded garden she favored, sharing candies she smuggled from her private storage case in her quarters.  Then One arrived and threatened to undo the vulnerable trust we established.

Instead of talking, he sat down with us.  Palandine greeted him by name and offered him his choice of the remaining chocolates.    

As I stared across at him, watching him eat, I found myself accepting the complexities of my feelings.  All of his superior qualities made me look up to him not just in obedience, but in attraction.  I shook my head but these thoughts remained inside, undisturbed.

“We’re still working on that smile,” Palandine said, at my unexplained lapse in attention.  I looked at her and One.  Back and forth, back and forth.

“Years to go, murk,” One softened his voice for a moment, like I was meant to hear this as a joke.  

Slowly, I nodded.  They each gave me a skeptical glance, before giving up and engaging in their own thinly-coded conversation.  

I believe this was the first moment I was conscious of my ebbing attractions.  I still sensed a jealousy in myself, over One and Palandine, but was confident that if it involved anyone else, I would be honored to divide my affection.  I was considering Eight and Palandine as the most likely options, then, without realizing how my luck would change later.

“Saved you your favorite,” Palandine said, waving the last chocolate into my line of vision.  

I did not recall admitting my favorite flavor to her.

⟡⟡⟡

I offered to prepare dinner.  It was part of my plan in getting Parmak to admit where he had been that day.  Bashir sat happily at the table, telling me how much he appreciated this gesture from me, while I skimmed the recipe files for something that would take longer than usual to prepare.

“So you’ve finished the reassignment process, then?” I proposed, the moment Parmak crossed the doorway.  This was phrased to preserve my innocence, regardless of the outcome; Bashir and I decided Parmak had either completed a transfer of the children’s names, or of himself to another Center assignment.  The motive remained undiscovered.

“They would be much more influential with your name on them, Elim,” he saw right through my strategy, apparently.  Had I lost my skills, or had he learned them?

Smile.  Wait.

“Now what’s _that_ face for, Elim?  You look like Julian.”

“Hey,” chided Bashir, having too hastily taken offense.

“It suits you much better, my dear,” I told him, before returning to Parmak.  “ _We_ wanted to know where you were today.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Elim,” he chuckled.  “Why would I keep secrets from either of you?”

“It just seemed a bit sudden,” Bashir explained.  “And somewhat mysterious, as well.”

“I went to help with a procedure at the Med Center in Cardassia City.  The Asylum there is in _dreadful_ shape and their med team can’t keep up.  Not everyone has an enhanced human to rely on.”

Bashir shrugged; he preferred to avoid the topic.

“What was the procedure?” he asked, instead.

“I’ve arranged to spend two days a week there as a psychologist.  Today was the first of them,” he explained.  “I saw a girl for a session of counseling.  Jil Orra Madred, her name is.”

“The Gul’s daughter?” Bashir was intrigued.

“Yes, I’d say that’s the root of her problems.” He turned to look at me, “It was fortunate _you_ did not have children to overlap with your career, Elim.”

“Oh?” I offered, to the man who now desperately wanted me to foster children in an even worse environment.  I accepted that I would never understand all of his complexities, but at least I was sure none were malicious.  Not ever.

“Jil Orra was apparently present at _all_ of her father’s interrogations, sanctioned or not.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said, and it didn’t.

“But what’s the point of that?” Bashir said, “I don’t see any outcome valuable enough to outlast the sheer psychological trauma that places on a developing mind.”

“Ah, now there is your answer, Doctor,” I replied, like we were across from each other at one of our lunches. “The practice _itself_ develops the mind.”

Bashir seemed unsettled, and glanced impatiently down at the table.

“I didn’t say I agreed with it,” I tried to reassure him.  “I speak as a defective product of this system, why would I continue to support it?”

“That’s good to hear,” Bashir conceded.

“How is the child, Kelas, my dear?” I asked, setting empty plates at each of our places, “I hope there is more hope left for her than for me.”

“It will take time,” said Parmak.  

“And resources,” Bashir added.

While they talked about strengthening the new government’s support of mental healthcare, I finished putting together our meal.  Bashir had plenty of empirical data from post-war planets, not only on physical casualties, but on the resulting cycle of depression and malnutrition that many aid services overlooked.  As always, I admired his passion, and felt relaxed by listening to the dialogue between him and Parmak.

Bashir was finishing an argument about vitamin deficiencies when I returned with our finished meal.  He twirled his fork around in it, thoughtfully.

“I think I’ve got our next project.”   

⟡⟡⟡

By the end of that night, Bashir outlined plans for a more comprehensive Asylum district, which would ideally absorb services offered by our other civic buildings.  He drafted several communiques to send his superiors, mostly to request more frequent stops on their supply routes.  We were ready to convert the open rooms in the storefront we had cleared in order to designate these to families in need of services, which Bashir enthusiastically assigned each of us to providing.

All of this was postponed - and simultaneously made more vital - by the collapse of a structure in Cardassia City.  Casualties were reported to Bashir and I by Parmak, who was working one of his days with Jil Orra.  We met in the City in front of the community information screen, which was broadcasting the details of our house and the storefront, where people could supposedly go for help.

Parmak shrugged, upon seeing us read this.  He must’ve seen the address a hundred times already.

“We’re needed here, first,” he said.

Bashir assured us the front door was locked, and only the storefront was open.

I collected a handful of devices from my doctors, who always gave me whatever they thought they could continue without.  Bashir knew almost enough about us, by now, to conduct his diagnoses without a specially-modified scanner, and I had taught Parmak how to close superficial wounds by hand with dissolvable thread.  I trudged forward with the bag they filled for me, feeling bad that these people had to rely on the decidedly amateur Elim Garak to save their lives.

As I let the tricorder hover over a female victim, it showed me the rate at which her lungs were collapsing.  I tried to hold her still while I called for Parmak.  He arrived to trade me places, wiping his dirty fingers on his lab coat and dispatching me urgently to his former patient.

The hardest lesson I was learning was how to prioritize cries for help.  Everyone was hysterical, and it was my job to discern which were in danger of dying and then work backward, accepting that my list would differ from Parmak’s and from Bashir’s, and that even the three of us together could not reach the bottom of it every time.  I wondered why either of them chose to endure this magnitude of defeat for a living; it must have felt even worse to them.

We worked at the site well into the darkness of night.

There was a woman in the center of the collapsed structure who had been impaled by a broken pipe.  I only heard her quiet sobbing after many of the screams had been subdued.  When I went into the structure, I found myself struggling to focus my vision; some inadvertent chemical compound had resulted from all of the pipes fracturing at once.  The tears in the corners of my eyes stabbed deeper each time I tried to clear them by blinking.  But this did not deter me.

After what felt like days, I was beside the injured woman.  I held her up - which resulted in deeper sobs - and realized the extent of her injuries.  She could not be treated here, I had to move her.

When we were free of the crumbling walls, and after I was convinced I had only managed to make this woman’s struggle - and therefore my work - more difficult, I noticed a shadowy figure approaching.  I wiped my eyes harshly against my sleeve and caught sight of something shiny and metallic dangling from the figure’s ear.  This was all I could discern, but I knew it was Nurse Sona.

She dashed by, breathless, demanding to know how she could help us, and why she wasn’t summoned in the first place.  I was learning to admire this quality in Bajorans, and urged her to find Doctor Bashir instead, as he was working without a tricorder.  

I dug the metal out of my patient’s back and dried my hands just enough to attempt a line of sutures, more extensive than any I had done so far.  The sound of soft footfalls distracted me, as soon as I’d finished threading my needle.  I turned.

I was not in any way pleased to see Pazia.  I did not have a chance to try to obscure her sight of my patient, nor did I have the luxury of taking my hands away from my work.  I sighed, irritated, and made my first incision.  

“Is Cidel with you?” I did not wait to hear an answer, “You take him and _go home_.”

She was silent, which made me feel partially relieved.  There were no words here meant to be accessible to children.  It was dark and awful, desperate and anguished.  

“Sona!” I demanded, deeply upset, “Sona Kyrene, do you hear me?  Why did you bring them here?!”

The nurse rushed to my side and made no apologies.

“Their house is full of strangers,” she said, reaching in and guiding my hand away from an exposed nerve. “Would you rather I left them alone?”

Our patient cried out in all the agony I was feeling.  I released the needle into Sona’s hand and stumbled backward through the dirt.

“But they shouldn’t be seeing this,” I said, trying to calm myself.  Pazia had managed to gather Cidel beside her, and they both stood and stared reliantly up at me.

“You’re helping them, aren’t you?” Cidel asked.  Knowledge had stripped the ability to speak from Pazia, who understood I was merely _trying_.

“Yes,” I said, firmly, hoping for a change in Pazia’s expression.  

“Then you don’t need to worry about us,” Cidel concluded.  I knew they had witnessed horrors like this before, under the watch of their previous carer, but that did not excuse it in my mind.  I desperately wanted their lives with us to be better.

I shared a mostly useless glance with Sona, who continued the procedure while I led the children away and sat them down on the clearest remaining ledge of the courthouse.  I directed them to look at the screen or the sky.  Anywhere but at the victims.

“It was an accident,” I explained.  “The walls collapsed.  We are doing everything we can, the Doctors and I.”

They both nodded to accept this.  Parmak had taught me to be direct, and that accidents were easier to forgive than acts of malice.  Bashir would have been pleased to hear me telling the truth exactly as I received it.  Maybe this event could be more cathartic than traumatic.  I found myself feeling a way I had not in years; I was hoping for the best.

“Go, then,” said Pazia.  “If you promise to come back to us, we can wait.”

“ _Not_ for Nurse Sona.  You wait for… one of _us_ ,” I tapped a finger against my chest, lacking conviction.

How was I supposed to elaborate?  I thought, for an instant, of saying ‘caregivers’ but the term was not official, and may not have been correctly understood.  Parmak was, occasionally, known to them as Uncle Kelas, a term our people used affectionately in lieu of any relation.  I remained lost in this forest of thought as I knelt beside the next patient on my list.

 _We_ met, much later, in the center of the ruins.  Bashir rolled down his sleeves and sighed.

“I have _all_ of our emergency armbands set to transport to the casualty wing at the Quarantine.  I’ll be there through at least tomorrow night, if you need me.”

He had not saved an armband for himself, so he turned away from us and ran.  Sona gathered his forgotten things and followed.

Parmak and I walked together to collect the children.  We were quiet.  As he stepped between them, Parmak placed a reassuring hand on a shoulder of each child.

“That was not an experience I would have wished for either of you,” he said, “but it is done, now, and you can speak of it however you like.”

Pazia remained in a realm beyond our consolation, but Cidel said he might manage to become ‘at least a nurse’ someday.  We continued along the transport route, with Parmak praising Cidel’s interest until I stumbled loudly and ungraciously forward.  Pazia took an apologetic look at me and immediately traded me places.

Parmak patted a place in the middle of his own arm, directing me to latch my hands to it.  

“Is something the matter, Elim?  Would you like to rest here a moment?”

Truthfully, I was having trouble seeing more than a few meters in front of myself, and had tripped over uneven ground I had not anticipated.  

“No, no,” I said.  “I was worried about all of you.”

Parmak gave an unconvinced grin.

“It will pass,” he said.  We were quiet, then, until we reached sight of our home.

A small crowd had formed around our front doorway, which we were relieved to find locked.  We parted the lines and unsealed the door.  I tried to speak softly, beneath this sound, against Parmak’s ear.

“Can we leave them here alone?” I asked him.

“I didn’t see your name on their reassignments,” he said lightly.  It meant he was surprised - pleasantly - to see me so concerned about their safety.  Sona had made a valid point.

Parmak presented the choice to the children directly, while we gathered Bashir’s plans and all the rations, vitamins, and water purification tablets we could carry.  Pazia thought it was best for them to stay at the house, after gently dismissing Cidel’s offers to help us, reminding him he didn’t really know what he was doing, no matter how much Parmak had just told him about medicine.

“The door will hold; there should be no cause for violence,” Parmak explained.  “If you feel unsafe - or, Cidel, like you may have a seizure - call for us from the computer.  There is enough charge in the transporter bands for you to reach us, in either case, if you must.”

“Good luck,” said Cidel.  Bashir taught the phrase to him, and he claimed it was the best Federation word he knew, having run the two pieces together to match our typical cadence.  Bashir claimed this made it sound like my name, and I found it more ironic than he did.

Parmak patted Cidel’s head and then we left.

⟡⟡⟡

Over the following months, our asylum building gradually grew into its space and into its name - the Palandine District.  

In addition to providing medical and mental care to its occupants, the three of us divided our skills to satisfy the other services these people needed.  I made clothes and blankets and mattresses.  The scraps, under Bashir’s care, became stuffed toys for the children - ours, and the others residing in our building.  Parmak arranged construction projects for those who were able to work, and the district expanded until all were housed comfortably.

The Federation’s concern receded as the tides of our solidarity came in.  They continued supplying us with rations, supplements, self-purifying wells, and rejected electronic components.  Their proudest accomplishment was rebuilding our government, as Bashir anticipated, and social projects were largely forgotten when this step was complete.  I was approached by members of several different delegations, offering to install me in a position of power.  It would be _good_ , they all said, to keep some elements of our old system.  Bashir refused on my behalf, appealing to every senior officer he remained in good standing with.

Our plan was to initiate a popular vote, not to guarantee me any lasting influence.  We kept some titles and administrative components, but had no names in mind.  

Bashir had finished his meal offering for the evening - something he called _curry_ with a base that was undeniably yamok sauce - and joined me in the common area.  He boxed individual portions of the meals he made himself so that our constituents could collect them and eat in their own homes.  It restored some feelings of self-reliance while maintaining the community atmosphere.  This was Parmak’s sophisticated philosophy, coupled with Bashir’s ever-improving interpretations of our cuisine.

I sat by myself on the lounge, lining up orchid stems to trim for our coats.  The Federation was hosting another of its diplomatic receptions that night, where we would do a lot of meaningless chatting and a small bit of work on finalizing the ballot system.  And then, likely, a celebration for finishing a task that could have been complete much sooner by someone else.

“Which one is mine?” Bashir asked, gesturing excitedly to the stems.

“Whichever you prefer, my dear,” I said, catching his hand as he reached for the table, “Unless you’re wearing that blue tunic of yours; I’m afraid that wouldn’t complement my designs well at all.”

Apparently I had unraveled his plans; he looked surprised.    

“I’ll just get ready, then, and you can choose for me.”

He leaned down to kiss the top of my head.

“No need to be nervous yet, Garak,” he said.  

Despite his best attempts, my name _did_ appear on the ballot.  I had provided help, directly, to nearly everyone in the city, and mourned my fallen anonymity.  

“Now _that_ ,” I proposed, “depends on whether you try to get me to dance with you, this time."

“If you won’t, Kelas will,” he said with a playful smile.


	10. Contributions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I forced myself to accept that no angle would free me from victory in the polls. Everything I did would be praised, regardless of intention. Cardassia had always operated this way, and I would not be able to change it on my own. Whether I was seen as equal, above, or below my partners affected nothing. I was made to look either trustworthy, regal, or selfless, and any would guarantee me the position."

I caught Bashir in the hygiene chamber later that evening, finishing his preparations for the Federation ceremony.  His blue dress tunic was draped over the chair by the counter, but he shook his head when I inquisitively picked it up by the shoulders.  The uniform itself was out-of-date, of course; Bashir held onto it not only because he thought he looked nice in it, but also because he knew I disagreed.  I went to collect his updated uniform from the wardrobe, clicking my tongue as I passed. 

There was nothing else for me to do with it, the pleats had remained nicely preserved despite its folding and the white was as bright as ever.  So I sat in the chair and watched Bashir continue through his routine.  He had filled the basin with warm, steamy water, and collected two stones from our heating pad by the bathtub.

“You don’t need anything else from me, I suppose,” I said, leaning forward and looking altogether too interested in an invitation.  

His reply was a soft laugh and one of my favorite smiles.

“You can make sure I don’t burn myself,” he joked.  He often allowed me to test the temperature of his bathing materials - anything I deemed ‘room temperature’ or colder was something he would find pleasantly warm.

I stood and pressed my fingers to the stones.  After approvingly passing them along, I found myself sitting and watching again, while Bashir held them to his face and sighed in relaxation.

“As always, my dear,” I began, “I find your methods most intriguing.”

He set the rocks down, cupped water in his hands, and submerged his face for a moment.

“What do you mean?” he asked, wiping himself dry.

“The way you’ve learned to mix Cardassian and Federation practices to suit your current situation.  Even I would need at least a year on an assignment to reach your proficiency.”

He laughed again to dismiss his talents.

“Humans have used rocks in their spas for centuries, Garak, if that’s all you’re getting at.”

“Yes, but the fact that you…” I had to pause and recall the Federation word, as it had no Cardassian equivalent, “that you _shave_ at all, while you’re here.”

“I don’t like to look any more alien than necessary,” he said, further proving his point by guiding his hair up and back with both hands, “it distracts from my skills as a doctor.”

“Still,” I remarked, “an interesting phenomenon - combining the individual merits of multiple cultures for simultaneous use, not only to benefit yourself, but those around you.”

Bashir set down his ultraviolet razor then rushed to pat down his hair with starch before it fell back into its natural waves.

“My dear Garak,” he smiled confidently, “if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say that sounded like a Federation viewpoint.”

“Fortunately you know me _very_ well,” I nudged his arm, then dabbed the wet towel over his hair to collect the extra powder.  He was still learning how to use it effectively.

We heard Parmak’s entry key at the front door, and he found us soon after entering the house.  He went immediately into the bedroom where he had arranged his clothes for the event, and remarked approvingly about the handful of flowers I’d left behind.

“You’ve borrowed things from me, as well,” Bashir said.  

He shepherded me out of the chamber and into the bedroom so he could dress himself.  Our interpretation of modesty was still something he was adjusting to, and he often questioned my motivations to Parmak, who laughed and supported my claims that removing clothing was more a show of trust than of attraction.  Apparently I had lost either for the night.

Parmak and I looked at each other for a moment, then at the orchids.  I selected one and waited for Parmak to finish getting dressed.  He caught my hand while I pressed the flower into place at his neckline, twisting the stem to secure it.

“I’m not overhearing a disagreement, am I?”

“Oh, hardly,” I replied.  “It’s one of our oldest and most prolific topics of discussion: customs he insists we’ve adopted from the Federation.”

Gently, I turned him around and ran a comb through his hair.  It was tightly curled, having only been freed of Pazia’s latest imposition of braids several hours prior.  I collected the fallen flower buds in my free hand while I continued smoothing out his hair.

“I see,” said Parmak with a nod. “I’m sure the list is long.  The Federation has made many contributions to our society; it would be wrong of us not to use any of them.”

I drew two wefts of hair together in the center, twisted them into a spiral, and clipped them into place.  I pressed the abandoned buds between panels of the clip, and showed Parmak to the mirror for an inspection.

“Contributions,” I echoed, while he studied himself.

“You’ll be getting the full list tonight,” Bashir said, sliding the door open and joining us between the bed and the work table.  “The assigned diplomatic team would be happy to provide it to the top candidate for the Castellancy.”

I shrugged.  Parmak offered a good-natured giggle and a squeeze on the shoulder.

“I’ve been telling him not to worry about it, either,” Parmak explained.  

I could not really see either of them in my peripheral vision, and suddenly felt more like they were thoughts floating above me than like real supporters at my sides.

“I don’t worry for myself,” I hoped I could clarify.  “I worry that I can’t provide a meaningful contribution to those who need it.  I have offered them homes and good health - what more can I give them?”

Parmak, because he was standing in front of me instead of behind me like Bashir was, must have noticed my brief lapse in vision.  He tried to wave his fingers in front of me inconspicuously, and ended up returning them to my shoulder once he regained my attention.  I followed this as far as my gaze would allow.

“I’ve told you before to stop devaluing yourself, Elim,” he said.

Really, I only felt unworthy of Parmak and Bashir’s continued company.  I sighed.

Parmak removed his hand and went to the work table, where I could hear him sorting through the contents of the drawer.

When he returned, he held our diluted vial of blue makeup, which he then opened and blotted against his thumb.

I shut my eyes when he approached me, and pressed into the concave center of my forehead.  

“You have shared your strength with us, Elim,” he continued. “You have given hope to many people who would otherwise have hatred.  You’ve given them a way to come together, without even _feeling_ alone.”

I opened my eyes, blinking several times to clear the clouds from my view of Parmak.  He had chosen a suit I altered for him to showcase the delicate beauty of his ridges, which I only then noticed.

“I feel the same about you,” I said, turning to make sure my gaze directly included Bashir.

⟡⟡⟡

“Let’s just say it isn’t one of your strengths,” she said, and I took a gracious step back from her.  

But Palandine had not just taught me to smile; she taught me how to lie.  She was the cause of many of them, and my practice arena for the rest.  Of _course_ I could dance passably if I wanted to - my sense of balance and precision of movement could be directly lifted from my former success at the stratagems, but Palandine did not seem to make the connection.  Or perhaps she did and liked to watch me stumble forward and smile apologetically before she tutted and began the lesson again.

When I stared directly across the gap between us, I met her makeup.  I looked down into her eyes and blinked heavily, like I was embarrassed.

“It’s just as well,” I said. “Surely you weren’t planning on taking me _with you_ to the ceremony?”

I imagined myself making an appearance at an acquaintance’s enjoinment ceremony with my mistress on my arm, refusing to face anyone but me at the traditional closing dance.  I wanted to laugh, but my face must have been more entertaining to Palandine than my thoughts were to me.

She giggled, softly, endearingly, and then smiled in equal measure.

“No, no.  You were thinking that all along, Elim, weren’t you…” but she did not seem to be questioning me, so at least some of my tactics had worked.  

Really, I was enjoying this opportunity to spend time with her, while gauging her interest in our relationship as a potential public ordeal.  I was convinced I would have even gone to the ceremony with her, just to see the study through, and because I enjoyed her company so shamelessly.

“I find you struggle with the _luket_ ,” she continued, listing the formal name of a move from the traditional dance.  

I grinned apologetically, saying that if my memorization of the actual moves was as good as my knowledge of their names, we would _both_ be professionals by now.

“It’s only an enjoinment,” she waved her hand before realigning it with mine.  We knew the christening ceremonies were worse, and laughed, secure in the knowledge we would not be attending either one.

“Still, it is nice to be good at something,” I expressed.  

“Something other than the _luket_ , you mean.”

She had to tug at the belt on my waist several times to get my attention, as merely feeling her touch there was no longer sufficient.  

“I may surprise you,” I said, closing the gap as directed.

“Oh, but Elim, I’m _always_ expecting that.”

⟡⟡⟡

The lights in the reception hall were dim and inviting.  I do not recall ever shaking hands with so many different people - many of them Starfleet officers - while Bashir bowed and introduced me proudly as ‘Ambassador.’  I tried to accept it as a compliment for my achievements rather than an indication of how little effort it took to be regarded highly by Starfleet.  Bashir’s promotions were rare enough for me to reassure myself that I had done something valuable and impressive.  If nothing else, I was being given the gift of a new identity for the first time in years.

Parmak and Bashir took turns pulling on my hands, trying to encourage me to join them when the music started.  I gazed distractedly at the band, instead, and insisted I would be along in a moment.

Of course I loved the intimacy the dances allowed us.  Because the event was hosted by the Federation, everything we said was subject to dissection by their translation system.  As someone who only felt functional when I wasn’t being perfectly understood, I took comfort in knowing the way we touched each other during the dances would be interpreted differently by every race in attendance.  However, I also deeply enjoyed watching Parmak and Bashir go on without me, and left them alone for several consecutive songs.

Parmak was an enthusiastic student of the human technique, and he smiled infectiously when Bashir guided Parmak’s hands to rest on his shoulders.  He had to do this often, as Parmak would gradually glide his fingers down Bashir’s arms, matching the Cardassian standard.  The shoulder is lined with scales; the forearm is more vulnerable, and creates a more intimate connection.

I also feared being away from them for too long, like my isolation would force a change in the way I was perceived.  It must look like I was superior to them - if I refused to partake in their activities - and I worried about the potential political fallout of this decision.  I hoped the forthcoming ballots would not cauterize my fears.

Politely, I declined both attention and a drink from a Federation commander, and went to join my partners in the center of the room.

Both expressed their delight at seeing me, and Bashir, our self-appointed instructor, tried to find a position that would accommodate all of us at once.  It was not dancing, in the end; all he could come up with was a loose sort of embrace, where we tried to sway in the same direction at the same time.  Satisfied with accomplishing anything, Bashir took a step back and nudged the two of us together, promising to return soon.

I caught his hand and considered the election again.  Admittedly, I was struggling to adjust my strategies to a new public image.

“No, please, I insist,” I guided Bashir forward.  “You two so rarely get a break from me.  I want you to enjoy yourselves.”

I went away to order them drinks.  While I waited at the bar, I found I was the focus of several other Cardassians from the Delegation.  Of course I was.  

One woman turned her initial gesture at me into a halfhearted and human-looking wave.  I returned this, and held their attention as I waited to collect not just a single drink, which they could assume was my own, but two.  One for myself and for a guest, perhaps.  I delighted in returning to the center of the room, knowing their eyes were still on me, and presenting my breathless partners with their respective favorites, ordered from memory.

To complete my performance, I asked for a single sip of Parmak’s spiced kanar.  As I returned the glass to him, I watched the gazes of the crowd disperse.

“That wasn’t much of a ‘break,’ Garak,” Bashir said lightly.

I forced myself to accept that no angle would free me from victory in the polls.  Everything I did would be praised, regardless of intention.  Cardassia had always operated this way, and I would not be able to change it on my own.  Whether I was seen as equal, above, or below my partners affected nothing.  I was made to look either trustworthy, regal, or selfless, and any would guarantee me the position.

“I suppose not,” I answered.  “I’ll have to make that up to you, as soon as I’m able.”

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak and Bashir returned from their expedition late in the night.  I had already escorted the children to their room for the night, and was collecting the dishes from our dessert when the door slid open, creaking as it went.

“Doctors,” I said, excitedly.  

I dismissed the momentary thought of kissing them each on the cheek as too enthusiastic; we had only been apart for one day, and even then I was not completely alone.  I had avoided isolation for several years, now, since Parmak began watching me more carefully, and I was not eager to return to it.

I requested a pot of Tarkalean tea from the replicator and distributed it into glasses while the others claimed seats at the table, setting down their cases and removing their coats.

“How were your appointments?” I asked.

“I am optimistic,” Parmak said.

“Are you,” I said, as if I could not be less surprised.  I twisted open the vial of pills prescribed for my headaches, and took two with my tea.

Bashir waited until I was finished before continuing.  He explained that Doctor Jessel, the obstetrician, met with him that morning about the egg he had placed in stasis more than a month prior.  He was worried about its condition degrading before he could find a suitable surrogate, and was very embarrassed to admit his list of possibilities had _doubled_ after the meeting.

Parmak shook his head, smiled, and collected the pot of sugar from my side of the table.

“Doubled?” I had to be sure I’d heard him correctly.  “What happened to my brilliant young doctor who’s never made a misdiagnosis?”

“He’s gotten old and forgetful,”  he said, defensively.  Parmak looked at Bashir until he copied the smile and nearly admitted defeat.  

“Julian was not searching his records for male candidates,” Parmak said.  He tried to make the mistake sound honest and innocent - as perhaps it was to a human - but Bashir remained unconvinced.

“I’d assumed you were lying when you told me that, Garak,” Bashir offered. “It was _years_ ago.”

“Well, it’s too late for me to be of any help to you _now_ , Julian,” I said.  I was still getting accustomed to using his name, and was afraid its infrequent use would rust my argument.

Parmak continued looking between us, intrigued.  He sipped his drink quickly, unaffected by the temperature, while Bashir had yet to taste his.

“I did not realize this was abnormal in humans,” Parmak explained.  “I knew there was a discrepancy in your scans and the records you provided, Julian, but I--”

Bashir could not force himself to say anything against this, so he reached instead for Parmak’s hand and gave it a cautionary tap.  None of this was new to me; he had nothing to worry about.  But there was also no cause for me to state my position, or explain _how_ I collected my information on Bashir’s reproductive organs.  The records were not mine to discuss.

Parmak returned his gaze with ease and apologized.

“But you’ll find someone to carry it?” I asked, eager to provide a distraction.  

Parmak was still learning to avoid talking about any of Bashir’s procedures.  Of course, he never brought it up disrespectfully, but as a medical professional who refused to let our race become so desperate.  

“That’s the thing,” Bashir said. “Doctor Jessel doesn’t even think it’s necessary.  She says we can control development in the stasis field, and then just, er, remove it in time to hatch.”

Parmak grinned at him again, amused that his discoveries about our reproductive process were so recent.  To be fair, he was dispatched here to triage war casualties, not oversee nurseries.  Anyway, I had not heard of children any younger than Cidel in the district; why bring a new generation into this mess before it was cut and cleaned by the record-keepers?  

I set down both my teacup and a heavy realization.  I needed to become the record-keeper.

⟡⟡⟡

Bashir remained home with me on the day of the election.  Thankfully, the Quarantine had served most of its patients through discharge, and was now only operational for emergencies.  Otherwise, Bashir and Sona took turns visiting patients at their homes within our district, while Parmak opened counseling sessions to anyone who needed them.  I began to understand that he did not go after hopeless causes - as I previously assumed - but sought to satisfy desperate needs.

I stopped checking the ballot reports after seeing my name appear uncontested in several districts.  I expected the victory, but was not entirely convinced I wanted it, or that I would know what to do with it.  Both Parmak and Bashir disagreed.

“I like your record policy,” Bashir reminded me, as he slid into the gap between me and the armrest on the lounge.  

“Collecting stories is the only relevant skill I can provide,” I recited.  The line had been used before in interviews, but he did not seem to be bored of it.

He gripped my arm to reassure me.

“Using your culture’s past as a foundation to rebuild from, Garak,” he said, in wonder, “that’s not just using _your_ skills… that’s getting others to share theirs, without drifting too far from the strong sense of unity in old Cardassia.  I think it’s brilliant.”

“As do the constituents, it seems,” I muttered.

Parmak came home some time later, carrying a sack of gifts he had not successfully dispelled as bribes.  He never accepted offers of any currency, but often arrived with a variety of foods and flowers during the course of the elections.  Families were eager to thank us for our help - now that they were able to do so - and we rapidly collected special blends of tea, fruit and vegetable preserves, baked goods, and bouquets.  I quietly repurposed what I could for distribution at the local orphanage, and placed the flowers on the graves of the forgotten dead.

He rummaged through the bag for a tin of berries, all crusted in sugar, which he passed excitedly to me.  Then he waited until one was caught between my teeth to begin a conversation.

“I saw you were doing well in the polls,” he offered.  

I nodded and swallowed and waited for him to continue.  Something else was on his mind; he avoided my gaze for longer than usual.

“Are you alright?” Bashir’s voice was only casually concerned.  Parmak never liked us to worry about him too seriously, and Bashir insisted this was a standard greeting on earth.

“It was nothing,” he said, finding my eyes like this would instantly convince me, “Gul Madred is just very… resistant to bringing his daughter all the way here to see _me_.”

“If he so much as _looked_ at you, even half as hard as I did, I--”

“All’s well, Elim.  I can handle a shake on the shoulder every now and then.”

He set his hand down over mine, and took the seat beside me.

“You should’ve punched him,” Bashir tried to be helpful.  “I mean, I _definitely_ would’ve punched him.”

Parmak sighed dismissively at this.

“I’m sure his mood will change after the election.”

“For the worse,” I said quietly.

“He will be out of things to insult, by then,” Parmak continued.  “He tries to take down too many pieces of me at a time, then it’s too heavy for him to throw back at me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bashir.

“Well, when he wonders why I’m living with a human and - no offense, Elim - an exile, I’m just reminded how fortunate I am to have not one but two supportive companions.”

“You could’ve said that and then punched him,” I offered, giving Bashir an amused look.

Parmak shrugged.

“Did he mention the food, this time?” Bashir asked.  

It was always a sensitive issue for Parmak, having spent three years starving on Bajor and then several more starving at home.  When he began carrying our donated food back from work and out to redistribution sites, Madred sometimes caught him and became unnecessarily jealous.  As if Parmak would not share whatever he had with anyone, regardless of past circumstance.  It was Madred’s loss for refusing to understand him, a Cardassian trait I could not wait to extinguish from the culture.

“Only that I must be well fed,” Parmak was trying hard not to sound guilty about this extreme, either, “since he’s dismissed my life here as ‘fruitless’ and ‘domestic.’”

I reached over Bashir to take my PADD from the armrest.  My intention was not to check the poll results, but to start a new segment in my growing record collection.  

As ever, my keys were not arranged in any standard Cardassian or Federation pattern, and the symbols were borrowed from an old and personal code of mine.  The others always had to ask what I was working on, and when they switched approaches and stopped asking, I started rearranging my keys.

“What’s that?” Bashir kindly took the bait.

“A list of traits to never be taught in school curriculums again,” I said.  This was true, but more formal than my actual work, which began as a web beneath Madred’s name.

“I may have a counterpoint to contribute,” Parmak said gently, “if you have the time.”

“I always have time for you, my dear.  And I would appreciate the distraction.”

After returning my screen to the poll tabulations, I offered Bashir the PADD and Parmak my full attention.


	11. Bajorans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In a way…” he faltered, and I knew his time with me was responsible for his occasional reluctance to speak directly, “But your interrogation ended in the best way possible, you know. If you were from Central Command, I would have been sent to a trial, and if Tain visited me himself, I would’ve been executed without one. A camp on Bajoran soil turned out to be the safest place for me.”

Parmak led me to the table so we could continue our discussion among stacks of my reference materials and sketches.  Bashir continued monitoring the polling figures, and called them out at intervals.

“I suggest you also include a list of traits to encourage in our schools.  I know you are interested in the effects of outside cultures.”

“I am, yes.”

“And you haven’t completed your coverage of the Occupation yet, have you?”

“No,” I said, waving my hand to keep my answer indirect.

“You weren’t thinking of omitting it?”

“No, Kelas, of course not.  I only meant the subject poses a unique challenge.”

He took in a long breath, and held his eyes shut for a moment before looking at me.  

“I have a lot to say,” he informed me, in case I might find his passion inconvenient.

I reminded him that I was intrigued and would listen for as long as necessary, and Bashir quietly said he would only interrupt us again when the votes were all counted.  Gratefully, I touched my chest; Bashir spent many of his nights trying to get us to sleep at a time he deemed acceptable, despite our insistence that we needed much less sleep than humans did.

Parmak nodded and continued.

“You were correct, of course,” he sighed, “about what horrible things I had to survive before I was liberated.  But none were at the willing hands of any Bajoran.”

“They must’ve began with mine,” I acknowledged my guilt by turning my hands and resetting them on the table, palms up to offer apology.  

“In a way…” he faltered, and I knew his time with me was responsible for his occasional reluctance to speak directly, “But your interrogation ended in the best way possible, you know.  If you were from Central Command, I would have been sent to a trial, and if Tain visited me himself, I would’ve been executed without one.  A camp on Bajoran soil turned out to be the safest place for me.”

“You don’t need to talk about this,” I reminded him.  “Some vague allusion would be more than enough for me to finish my entry.”

“I appreciate your concern, Elim, but I think it will help.”

I slid my hands forward, just to reach the center of the tabletop.  If he wanted my touch, he was free to request it, but I would not pressure him.  I would listen and I would continue watching his movements.  Part of me enjoyed this chance to use my skills; I felt bad for not trying to repurpose them any earlier in my career.

“Our sentences were similar,” he proceeded, “both of us being sent to live among Bajorans.  But you were a prisoner among free people, while I was, as my treatment proved, an equal.  I have never been so readily embraced by anyone.”

I had to blink, suddenly uncomfortable with the duration Parmak had managed to lock our gazes.  When I opened my eyes again, the clouds appeared in the corners.  I rubbed both eyes impatiently against my sleeve, and Parmak waited until I returned my arm to the table.  He gave a respectful, knowing look to me before setting one of his hands over mine.

“You want to discourage certain traits in our culture, Elim, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Well.  We have always held a strong respect for our beliefs, Cardassians, refusing to accept challenges or adversity.  The Bajorans are similar, but, where they are never willing to change _what_ they support, we are.  I believe that is the underlying theme you should convey.”

The topic intrigued me, and I made several notes atop one of the maps on the table.

“You sometimes admit I’m a mystery to you, Elim,” he continued, carefully watching me move the pen.  “You don’t understand how I go on being honest and selfless after the time I spent suffering.  The answer is in the heart of every Bajoran I met there; I found my strength in refusing to change my beliefs.”

I glanced up, thoughtfully, and asked if there was anything else I should include in my allegory.  

“You should, perhaps, submit to an examination after the election,” his voice was incredibly quiet, so that it did not attract attention.  It only collected mine because it was so out of the ordinary.

“I am in perfect health, I assure you,” I failed to match his volume exactly, and Bashir turned to glance at us over his shoulder.

Parmak’s hands crawled forward, between mine, to retrieve the map.  He held it up and indicated one section by tapping his finger.  I had written my notes directly over the compass, instead of to one side of it as I originally thought.  

“Perhaps,” he said again.

⟡⟡⟡

The cataracts were not hugely surprising to me.  Bashir promised to refine his surgical skills, and returned from his latest Federation meeting with a data-chip full of the most successful techniques on other planets.  I made sure to dismiss his efforts kindly, explaining my deteriorating sight was a mere side-effect of my age, even though we both knew this was untrue.  He enlarged his scans enough for me to see them, and pointed out the residual acids that caused my condition.

Parmak had long since retired his ego in favor of my well-being, and provided me with occasional injections to clear my eyes, instead.  Without the medication, I could see only things very close to me, and any attempts to quickly move my focus were undone by the growing clouds of blue.  To me, it looked like I was constantly standing in a transporter, but to Parmak, it offered relief he reluctantly accepted.

“Anything that allows you to look at me, I am content to endure,” I said, but he was not ready to consider it a joke.  “I would even say I deserve this.”

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Parmak shrugged and set down the empty hypospray.

I insisted these were reserved for special occasions, such as this evening.  My first and proudest achievement in the month I’d spent as Castellan was a set of new requirements for orphanages.  All abandoned children were now housed in my district, where I could personally ensure their safety and education.  We were hosting a reception there this evening, encouraging the surrounding families to adopt, if they were able.  I refused to fall to Dukat’s pitiful level on this policy.  

“I’m just pleased to finally see your name on the children’s reassignments,” Parmak said lightly.  

“It’s my seal, not my name,” I corrected, holding up one finger, “and it’s on the documents of every child in the district.  You must remember, Tain’s name was on _mine_ , and that didn’t help me any.”

“You must stop comparing yourself to him,” he said.  The habit was recent, and one I was genuinely trying to break, but I was also reluctant to formalize any of my relationships, afraid of making targets of my family.  Parmak understood this position applied to his wistful mentions of enjoinment, too, and he eventually stopped making them.

“I agree,” was all I said.

Bashir stopped by to collect us, having already picked up the children from Sona’s house, where they spent the day being too excited about the ceremony to actually prepare for it.  They arrived in traditional tunics, instead of the ones Parmak suggested I make them for the occasion, but I could not bring myself to argue.  Pazia looped a ribbon through her hair as we walked, trying to match it to Parmak’s, and that was the extent of either child’s preparation.  

I believe my opening remarks were shorter than any in Cardassian history.  I concluded with a recitation borrowed from Bamarren, of all places.

_“The only thing we can do alone is fail.”_

The applause was conservative, but still enough to surprise me.  Parmak was there to guide me down the stairs from the podium, then he led me around to meet the rest of the orphans.

Many were former patients of Bashir’s, or current students of Parmak’s.  I was careful in noting all of their names, assigning them to what I saw of their faces as my injection gradually wore off.  Then we moved to the line of our guests, scheduling interviews with all who were willing to adopt, in order to confirm the suitability of their household.  Our final order of business was to seal the reassignment orders of all the children who would be leaving the orphanage system that night, including Pazia and Cidel.  I made sure to smile at every excited family I forged together with a firm press of my stamp.  

The ceremony concluded with fireworks, which, at my suggestion, would emit no noise.  Many of these children were abandoned as the result of bombings and collapses of their homes.  I wanted to entertain them and feed their curiosity, not their trauma.

Parmak unrolled the blanket he packed for us, excited about Bashir’s insistence on something called a _picnic_.  We sat down together, the five of us, while Bashir distributed our dinner from his bag.

I felt Cidel tugging at my hand, trying to talk between bites of his food.  Pazia suggested he sit with Uncle Kelas instead; she was good at catching my glances when they became vacant, and liked to avoid explaining this and other unpleasantries to her brother.  Bashir leaned in and held my shoulder, offering me a taste from his spoon as pretense.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I used this particular phrasing because I could not distinguish the colors or patterns in the show.  Only the occasional bursts of light broke through the processing center in my brain.  

“Wonderful,” said Bashir.  I heard him swiping his spoon around the bottom of his bowl, and he brought it again to my lips.  “It makes me feel like I’m home.”

“Are these common on Earth?” Parmak asked.  The same question was on my mind, but my mouth was occupied with the _kheer_.  Instead, I tilted my head inquisitively in Bashir’s direction.

“Oh, I didn’t mean like that,” Bashir said happily.  “I meant this night has everything ‘home’ means to me.  I hadn’t felt it yet.  Not that I was worried or anything, I was just waiting for the feeling to come - you know? - and wondering if I’d done anything wrong.”

“Never,” Parmak assured him.

⟡⟡⟡

I recalled the first time we had shared food in a similar manner.

It was one of our earlier lunch meetings, where Bashir was already, worryingly, and completely convinced I was a spy.  I didn’t mind the suspicions, as long as he did not act on them with any serious research.  He opened this encounter, however, by saying he made a mention of my name to the Constable.  Luckily, I was better at hiding my interactions and redirecting my business than Quark was, so Odo did not often bother me at my shop.

“Yes, well,” I began, laying out my napkin, “the only thing I can admit to is that I _do_ rely on his assistance from time to time.  I hope that doesn’t make you think any less of me, Doctor.”

“His assistance?” Bashir was understandably skeptical.  

“Yes, from time to time,” I repeated.  

Bashir hadn’t given me a sufficient facial expression from which I could continue forming my strategy.  I learned that his crewmates of other species, even humans, felt the same way about him; I shrugged to help us both along.

He was thoughtful.  Quiet.  I knew he trusted the Constable, and must’ve assumed my claims of ‘assistance’ didn’t mean we were working together on anything questionable.  This was all I had to build from, but I tried to praise myself with a list of cases where I was starved of information and still successful.  Bashir could have become the best yet, had I actually needed any intel from the Federation.  No, he was an enjoyable hobby.

“He completes bio-filtration scans for me,” I continued, newly encouraged.  

“Bio-fil--?”

He paused to watch me unwrap the synthetic foil from one component of my lunch.  I held it up, as if it was evidence.

“Cardassians are intolerant to many ingredients that other species - Bajorans, for example - rely on daily.”

His voice became quiet, and he leaned in over our plates.

“Are you saying that someone’s trying to poison you…?”

I shifted back in my seat to maintain the distance and, therefore, the dominance of the conversation.

“It would not be difficult.”

“Well, there must be a _reason_ someone wants to poison you, Garak.  I can’t help you if you don’t tell me."

“It _is_ a Bajoran station, with Bajoran replicators,” I tilted one hand vaguely toward my meal.  “They are, as I understand, quite simple to reprogram.”

“ _Garak_.”

“You need not trouble yourself, Doctor.  I only order from a list of items Odo has cleared; we expand it every chance we get, but, as you know, we are both very busy with our other work--”

“Of course,” he said, almost smiling.  “You know, I have a range of benzodiazepines for paranoia.  If you’ll come with me to the Infirmary, I’m sure we can find one you _aren’t_ allergic to.”

I was impressed that he dismissed me with a diagnosis so quickly.  I likely _was_ paranoid, anyway, but due to factors long-ignored and far beyond the young doctor’s control.  In any case, I felt some celebratory indulgence was in order.

“This I’danian spice pudding, Doctor,” I began, “have you tried it?”

“I… I can’t say I have, no.”

He ordered it from Quark’s almost twice a week.  The glittering in my eyes must have been obvious, but he blinked, unaffected, like he had the same struggle with reading my face as I did his.

I passed the entire saucer to him, with an unnecessary flourish of my hand.  

“Oh, you _must_ ,” I said. “It’s better than any I’ve ever had.”

This was true; I had yet to eliminate it from my diet despite knowing it did not help me.

“You aren’t trying to poison _me_ now, are you?” he offered with a laugh.

I reached over to take a spoonful of it before he did, eating it quickly and then replacing the spoon, maintaining an overbearing smile throughout.

He took a scoop of it and tried to match my face.  It was one of the first times I remember feeling proud of him, not just amused by him.  I became eager to strengthen our connection.

⟡⟡⟡

Sona arrived early on the long-awaited morning of our first tennis match, wearing clothes much thinner and tighter than usual, dragging along a racquet and her day’s ration of water.  Bashir’s preparations were similar, so I assumed the trend was important to playing the game successfully.  

I spent the two preceding days working in the space between the garden and the shed with the children.  We collected all of the spent soil and smoothed it out until the flat area matched the dimensions Bashir requested for his court.  Cidel marked the boundary lines with pails from the shed while Pazia asked to help me sew together a net of canvas.

Being the most awake and excited, Bashir rushed to greet Sona at the door.  

“Morning, Kyrene,” Parmak said.  

He sat beside me at the table, where we were halfway through our breakfast.  Or less, if the time we spent waiting for the children to decide on what to make was counted.  They were learning to read Federation from the recipe book.  

“Hello, Kelas,” she replied.  Bashir asked if she was ‘ready’ and, with a definitive nod, she followed him outside.  

“I was not under the impression it was quite so serious,” Parmak mumbled to me.  “I would have paid more attention to the handbook Julian provided.”

“The one he _wrote_ , you mean?  It’s a game like any other.  Only our opponents take it seriously."

“Hmm,” he said.  “I would have expected you to be more competitive.”

I shrugged.

“Not when I’m sure to lose.”

He gave this a gentle laugh before standing, herding the children together, and taking us all outdoors.  

Bashir told me I had played this game with him once, in a feverish vision he had.  He relayed every detail, but as if I was a native speaker of the terminology.  I nodded along, letting him perceive me as an expert, but every word beyond ‘service’ was admittedly lost on me.

“Your serve, Sona,” he said, twisting his fingers impatiently over the handle of his racquet.  

She bounced the ball several times before obliging, muttering something about the rules being different on Bajor.  Bashir caught this, then the ball, and said he would be happy to accommodate her, changing the requirements and resetting the score mid-match.  

“I didn’t read the Bajoran rules,” I admitted to Parmak.

“Maybe if we watch…” he trailed off, “let me know when you’d like the injection.”

We observed two matches this way, which apparently ran long due to the skill of both players, and then a third where the children tried to copy what they’d seen.  It was mostly Cidel reciting back the words he heard the adults say, while both of them struggled to run across the court in enough time to return each other’s serves.  Sona went away to mix a supplement into her water ration, during this, while Bashir came and sat down beside me.

“Did any of that sound familiar?” he asked me.  I had to shake my head.

“I’m afraid my Bajoran vocabulary, while extensive, hardly covers athletic terminology.” 

When I learned the language, giving orders and making threats were prioritized, which allowed me to understand the playful insults and challenges Bashir and Sona exchanged during their game, but not much more.  Parmak supplemented the practical information he gleaned - numbers, scores, intentions.  We were adapting well, but were hardly ready for a game of our own.

“I’ve enjoyed watching,” said Parmak, with enough genuine amusement to cover both of us.

“Yes, well,” Bashir said, feigning modesty.  “And the children seem to like it, don’t they?”

“I would say so,” Parmak agreed.  He took my hand and patted it, telling me how Pazia and Cidel were now standing on opposite sides of the net, holding their miniature racquets across the threshold to compare them, insisting they were different even though they were both copies of Bashir’s.  

I leaned in against Parmak, lining up my fingers between scales on his neck, as if the proximity would help me absorb the details of what he saw.  I knew I could ask for an injection to clear the clouds away, but the idea made me uncomfortable.  At first, it reminded me too much of triggering my implant as soon as I was able to do so, a liberty I abused until it turned on me.  How quickly would I learn to rely on injections?

This time was not for me, though.  I could recognize that this time was for the children, about our collective chance to give them the pleasant days and safe nights they deserved.  

“I think they’ll remember this for a long time,” I inferred.

Bashir gave my shoulder a playful shove.  But things still didn’t feel right to me.  I thought about what he said, about how he was able to finally match his definition of ‘here’ with ‘home.'

Then it became obvious to me; I was meant to remain in the dark.


	12. Boxes

_“...Until you can express_ why _you were unsuccessful, Elim…”_  

The situation always overwhelmed me, and I was lucky to understand any of the words at all.  I was usually distracted by the taste of the tears in my mouth, and unable to divide focus fairly to my remaining senses.  

_“...then I will return to…”_

But I never heard the reason.  Instead, I heard the electronic whirring of the door-lock and heavy footsteps - burdened by physical weight, not manifestations of regret as I wished they were.

I was rarely successful in slowing my breathing.  My gasping continued until the rest of my body refused, exhausted by the action, and I fell from my uncomfortable crouching into a hopeless pile on the floor.  Trying to count the passing time did not relax me, so I had no clue how long I remained inside.  

With the unfortunate repetitions, I learned how to gauge the length of my sentence based on the brightness when I entered and when I exited, based on the dryness of my throat, based on the redness of my eyes when I was finally allowed to see them in a mirror.  I learned, also, how to regulate my breathing until I was calm enough to form an answer without my voice breaking or stuttering, either of which would have restarted my term of imprisonment.  It was only my deep fear of the solitude that forced me to answer the original question, shouting it loud enough to recall Tain’s attention.  

When I was released, I remember running inside to find Mila, whose support was silent.  She would offer me what remained of the household’s evening meal, hold my face in her hands, and advise me sternly not to talk about it.  She knew already, and did not want to hear my rendition.  The less she felt for me the better.

After eating, and, without much variance, also being sick, I would go into my bedroom and spend the rest of the night staring at the door.  Did I want to shut it, to be sure no one could disturb me, or did I want to leave it open so I would not feel suffocated by the box I willingly retreated to?

I fell into a fitful sleep, trying to decide.

⟡⟡⟡

One of the original recommendations my doctors made regarding my eyesight was to alter our sleeping arrangement.  Apparently, when I was the victim of unpleasant dreams, I rolled out of their reach.  I was not so worried about moving around beyond my control - in fact it somewhat appealed to me - but the case against it was convincing.  I knew I would submit to almost anything tactile, and so did my doctors.

“Wouldn’t you feel safer if we were there, reminding you where you are?” Bashir offered, one evening.  His place was generally in the middle, but he happily offered to trade for my benefit.

“It would not hurt to try,” Parmak said, in agreement.  So they helped me to exchange my clothing and settle in beneath the blankets.  

We all knew that my sight had not completely vanished, but none of us admitted it.  I was generally content to let the others fuss over me, and the feeling was seemingly mutual.

I could see that I was facing Bashir, for example.  His eyes were always unmistakable.  And his skin, and his hair...  

I felt the stubble along his neck, up the side of his cheek, and he gently cupped his hand over mine.  Parmak, meanwhile, kept one hand firmly against the center of my back while the other drew circles over the scales on my neck.  I could feel his breaths, warm and steady, and thought of the first night we spent together.

Bashir wrapped his other arm tightly around my waist, pulling himself closer to me.  

“Everything alright, Garak?” he asked.  

I should’ve expected him to notice the change in my heartbeat before I could attempt to correct it.  Parmak’s hand twisted around to the front of my neck, dipping down my chest so he could offer a second opinion.

“If anything, Doctor,” I began, falling foolishly into the old habit, “I’d say everything is too alright, if that’s an acceptable Federation phrase.  This arrangement, as it is now, is _perfect_.  I can’t understand why you’d ever trade this away.”

After watching him shrug, I shut my eyes.

“You’ll wake either of us if you need anything,” Parmak said.

“I will, yes,” I confirmed.  I would try my hardest not to.

Bashir gave the command for the computer to dim the lights, gradually, until the room was completely dark.  I decided it would be best to keep my eyes shut during the transition.

Sleep never did find me.  But when I opened my eyes to check the time, the room around me was still completely black.  Again, I felt the quickening pace of my heartbeat, and I tried to at least control my breathing so I would not disturb my partners.  I reminded myself of my surroundings, and recited, internally, all of the things I could feel.  First among these was the air circulating in the room, humid and warm, promising me I was in my bedroom and not in the torturous box.

Bashir’s grip around my waist tightened, fingers fumbling over the ridge there.  I heard the mumbled sounds he sometimes made in his sleep.  In my current state, I was unable to divide responsibility to the causes of my anxiety, which was an unfortunate side-effect.  I would need to wait until I was calmer to determine whether the restricted space unnerved me - even though it was imposed by two loving and cautious partners - or whether I was affected by the darkness - even though it would be continuous until I submitted to medication.  I wondered why I didn’t find the constancy of either option to be reassuring, and then the reason hit me… I could not live with both Parmak and Bashir forever.  We would separate eventually, for one reason or another.  This thought did not slow my heartbeat.

I struggled to turn and lay on my back without noticeably dislodging Bashir’s arm.  I reset it over my stomach, letting his fingers drift down over the ridges as he pleased, then glanced briefly over at Parmak.  Both appeared to still be sleeping, and remained that way until the lights brightened at the end of their preset cycle.

As usual, Bashir was the first to awaken.  He drew his hand slowly upward, blushing in a way I could _feel_ instead of see, and then leaned forward to inspect me.  

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want the surgery?” Bashir whispered.  “I can do it as soon as you’re ready.”

His years on the station would have made him accept any request I made, even if it was ‘immediately’ and he was still mostly asleep.  Instead I raised one shoulder against the mattress, not even fully committing to a shrug.  

Having heard the rustling, Parmak sat up and leaned over me, also.  I was staring upward, between them.

“You haven’t slept, have you, Elim?” Parmak observed.

“Do you remember our first night together, Kelas?” I asked him.  He brought my hand to his face when he nodded, and I wondered why he might be embarrassed to answer verbally.  

“I’ve been thinking of that night a lot, recently,” I continued.  “Of how I fought to stay awake, just so I could feel your touch, even though I _knew_ how hard you were working to get me to sleep.  I must’ve gone weeks without it.  But suddenly, that night, even a minute away from you seemed too long.”

He did not seem completely satisfied with this answer, and he dropped my hand.

“I worry about losing any time together, as we age,” I continued.  He disliked that even more, and stood up to distance himself from me.

“Elim,” he began, distressed, “there’s no need for that kind of talk now.”

“Certainly, Kelas,” I mimicked his offended tone, “I’ll confine it to my thoughts.  It’s better there.”

He took a sharp breath and reached to touch my shoulder, the one I had not even tried to shrug with.

“I didn’t mean _that_ , Elim.  I meant it is not something you need to worry about at this time.  You’ve recently had an examination; all of us are here, together, and healthy.”  Twice he patted me, before continuing in a lighthearted tone, “surely there are more pressing matters for the Castellan to assign his concern to… what fable he’ll read his children tonight, for instance, or which suit he should have altered for the first session with congress.”

Parmak was usually correct in both his approaches and his outcomes, so I sat up and nodded in agreement.  It broke whatever remained of my heart, trying to explain the cause of my panic, which Parmak had nothing to do with.  It was unfair of me to get upset with him, and even more unfair for him to forgive me.  

“But I _loved_ being there,” I continued, “in between you, knowing I was safe.  It just… it reminded me too much of--”

“I understand,” Parmak’s voice was calm and quiet.  

I hoped I had never done anything that forced him to recall his time at the labor camp.  Suddenly and profusely, I apologized for the very possibility.

“I have never had reason to fear your touch, Elim,” Parmak assured.  “Now, we will try something different.”

“Surgery,” Bashir suggested, and I acquiesced.

⟡⟡⟡

I spent my recovery in the company of the Quarantine’s other recent discharge - the abandoned egg.

Bashir was an adept surgeon, building a concise strategy from all the foreign techniques he studied.  Cataract surgeries were not hugely common on Cardassia, and he was looking forward to originating another case study.  He removed the damaged lenses - as they’d done for centuries on his home planet - and replaced them with new ones.  In my case, and thanks to an underexploited hobby of his, artificial ones.  At my request, the artificial lenses retained the opaque blue clouds my own eyes had developed over the previous months.  As a result of this modification, my vision remained somewhat blurry, but the change was enough of an improvement to make me realize just how bad it had gotten.

My intent was to preserve the double standard of deniability I relied on all my life.  Of course, my immediate colleagues knew of my surgery and its outcome, but I looked forward to studying the way visiting delegates and Cardassians from other districts would perceive me.  The blindness, written off as an effect of my age, earned me a certain amount of cautious respect, enough for me to walk through public meetings with assistance from one or both of my partners, and enough for me to pay close attention to the actions of anyone I mistrusted without suspicion.  Bashir questioned my strategy, but ultimately obliged and promised to do his best at playing along.

The prescribed leave of absence was a week, the shortest I could talk Parmak into giving me.  Bashir held firmly at what he called a fortnight, and once Parmak learned what that was, he promised to shorten it for me.  Parmak agreed that the best way for me to recover was to have something to focus on, and he smuggled what he could of my work home to me.

At least the egg offered pleasant and reliable company.  

I sat on the lounge with it resting between my chest and the PADD I was reading from.  Having never served this purpose before, I approached it practically.  Keep it warm, rotate it often.  Parmak talked to it and encouraged me to read to it.  Bashir would lay with it atop his chest and beneath a blanket, putting his warmer skin to good use.  I marveled that neither had been a parent before.

“It would be unfair to put so much pressure on you -  hmm?” I said to the egg on the last night of my recovery, “- to make you a symbol for everything we are rebuilding.”

Parmak joined me, arriving from the dining table where he had been scoring adoption applications.  He only carried one cup of tea, but it was large, and he offered me as much of it as I wanted, holding it gently to my lips before joining me on the lounge.

“You’re comparing - I believe - birth to _re_ birth, Elim.”

He put one hand softly over the top of the egg, mumbled something about its progress, and then returned his attention to me.

“But, of course, there’s a great deal of pressure in false comparisons, also.  You’ve learned that all your life.”

I tried to set my fingers down in the exact pattern he did, but I did not feel anything significant through the shell.

“When did you become so philosophical?” I asked him, amused.

“Too late to be of any use,” he said back.  This was my preferred excuse for being so helpless with the hatching process.  “I thought - since Julian gave _me_ your work for the day - you could use a good discussion.”

I acknowledged his effort with a grateful nod.

“But I am comparing birth and _hatching_ ,” I corrected.  “Like our world, the egg has endured birth already.  The next step is more complicated.”

“Its mother may disagree,” Parmak said with a smile.

I made a passing remark about the Hebitians, happily lost in our expanding metaphor.

“I delight in knowing our people will be properly educated,” Parmak concluded.  

“I have many civilians to thank for that,” I explained.  

My record collection grew, even during my leave, as I conducted interviews with people of every background and former profession.  I felt some deep and divine vindication in using my interrogation tactics for good.  They yielded more useful results when I softened them, to the point I wondered how Cardassia achieved anything with the original techniques they taught me.  

“It is absolutely the most vital part of rebuilding society,” Parmak added.  

He offered me another chance at the teacup, which I declined with a flash of one hand.  He set his cup down on the table, slid closer to me, and settled both his hands atop the egg.  I watched, intrigued, and set my PADD down on the armrest so I could request a demonstration.  Parmak eagerly led my fingers to grooves on the shell, pressing them into place and watching closely for a change in my expression.  

“I don’t feel anything,” I admitted, which lost me Parmak’s eye contact, something I greatly enjoyed.  I tried to reclaim it, “Are you sure that it’s ev--?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Don’t give up on her, Elim.  _Wait_.”

I mouthed _‘her?’_ in case my voice would disrupt any progress or distract from any results.  Parmak nodded and continued watching, sometimes reaching to touch my hand encouragingly.

My method was borrowed completely from the regnar.  I focused on the texture of the shell, hoping to match my fingertips to it, so I could be aware of any changes from within.  In the prolonged silence, I thought I finally caught a feeling like air bubbling through fluid.  I opened my eyes and took in a shallow breath, ready to express my findings to Parmak.

“Ah,” he said, catching my gaze again, “there is your connection.  You’ll find it’s easier to listen once you’ve learned the language.”

I remained quiet, yearning for a deeper interaction.  Parmak sat there beside me, until very late in the night.  Eventually, he gently scooped up the egg and took it away, so she could spend the rest of the night under Bashir’s watch.  When all of us were sleeping, she stayed in a quilted box on Bashir’s ‘side’ of our bed (against the back railing.)  

I did not return to the bedroom that night.  Instead I stayed behind on the lounge, trying to figure out what the egg and I had said to each other, if anything.  

Nothing stood out to me.  I was grateful, as Parmak suggested long ago, that I had avoided these disappointing attempts at parenthood for so long.  


	13. Interpretations

I frequently had dreams about Pythas.  The brief, waning kind of dreams that often slipped through my memory before I was fully awake.  I would sit up - still feeling the warmth and comfort of our imagined interactions - then understand this would not help me make progress in sorting my real memories of him away from those that were invented.  

I was sure I had not been a parent before.  But, after one of these dreams, I was convinced that I had at least been married.

 _I don’t think that’s wise_ , Pythas said to me, just by widening one skeptical eye.  

I turned my back to him and continued gathering my things from his bedroom.  Clothes, mostly, as they were the most solid bricks I had in building a life together with him.  We did not keep other personal belongings with us when we were preparing for our assignments, and even the clothes were traded for sterile and inconspicuous ones the moment we set off.  

While he packed every available luxury to take to his new office, I packed to set off on either a successful mission or a shameful reassignment.  It would depend on what my new superior said to me.

“Regnar,” he pleaded.  I continued ignoring him until he used my proper name.

“What?” I asked, turning for long enough to understand the pain in his eyes.  I looked to the ground, then, rather than endure the rest of his silent lecture.  I would force him to speak, like he did earlier, when we met in his office at headquarters.

“You cannot go on seeing her,” his voice was unreasonably calm, so much that I almost allowed it to relax me.  But that was how the trap was designed - camouflaged calmness.  

“What?” I repeated.  I never said a word to him about Palandine since Bamarren, and I barely discussed her even when we _were_ all attending together.  

Tain could have told him, of course, but he did not need to.  Approving of my recent enjoinment with Pythas was his own way of sharing his knowledge of my declining affair with Palandine.  His mastery was getting both of us to stand on a rug to study it before yanking it from beneath our feet.  

Pythas never lost his skill in reading me.  Despite my demotion, my shoulders no longer bowed in shame, my eyes glowed through the darkness, my lips held onto the smile she taught me.  I was certain, too, that I carried every scent of her home and her body.  It was like I admitted everything to him, the moment I approached him and asked hopefully for a goodbye kiss.

“I’m not the one you should be saying goodbye to, Elim.”

How many more people could I disappoint, before I even stepped foot on Bajor?

“You don’t understand,” I said, condescendingly.  Beyond my control, my fingers curled tightly around the scarf I was holding, and I considered shoving it into my mouth to keep from implicating myself any further.  

I heard his footsteps behind me.  He approached and grabbed me harshly by the shoulder, driving in his nails until I dropped the scarf and turned to face him.  I felt the weight of his hand in the imprint Tain left there.

With his eyes both narrow and on the verge of tears, and his nostrils flaring at each poorly-measured breath, he replied.

 _I don’t want to_.

“It does nothing to diminish my affection for you, you _must_ know that,” I said, unnerved by the sound of his tears.

He shook his head while he gathered the words.

“It would be best - for both of us, Elim - if you did not return from Bajor.”

⟡⟡⟡

I always enjoyed the meetings of the full congress, over which I presided.  As misguided as the Federation’s original plan may have been, they did manage to move us from a continuous and hateful cycle of voting and recounting and voting again, into one more beneficial to our current climate.  As Bashir explained one night - reiterating the closing remarks he particularly enjoyed from one of the captains - our former system of having multiple parties who refused to collaborate with each other - and, in fact, often actively worked to undermine each other - did not actually count as equal representation.  He sipped his diluted kanar and gave me one of his trademark I-told-you-so smiles.

Now, though, I oversaw a group of congressional representatives who were each selected by their constituents to voice the concerns of the area.  I looked forward to being pulled aside for additional discussions, as I always found a new perspective to add to my comprehensive history.

On one evening, after the meeting was dismissed, I was taken aside by Natima Lang, who now represented her home district.  She and I talked frequently about educational reform.

“There is a personal matter I’d like to discuss with you, Castellan,” she said, leading me to the cover of a corridor.  

“Of course, Proconsul,” I was wary, but determined not to appear so.  

When she was satisfied with our location, she asked quietly about the result of my surgery.

“I am improving,” I said.  

“It was the work of the human doctor…?” she insisted.

“Yes, Doctor Bashir.”

She took a short, needlessly exaggerated breath.  Clearly she disliked the message she was meant to relay to me.

“I’ve heard he sought enjoinment with Kelas Parmak.  Is that true?  It’s only that you live so near to both of them, I--”

“I live _with_ both of them, yes.”

“With,” she echoed, hoping to gauge my meaning based on how I repeated myself, but I knew this tactic well and refused.

“I expected you would be more approving of my recommended policies regarding resident non-Cardassians, Natima.  They’re included in voting, marriage, adoption, last wills, commerce--” I stopped myself from hinting any further at her former interest in Quark.  That was not why she was speaking to me privately.  “They’ve brought much-needed stability to our society.”

“Stability?  You must not have been able to see what they’ve been doing, all this time, when you’re away.”

Amused, I pursed my lips and waited to hear exactly what she thought of me.

“I agree that cultures change and develop,” she continued, “but I’m not sure extramarital affairs have any further place in ours.”

“Which part of that accusation is for me?  I know exactly what they _do_ , Natima; I’m an equal and willing part of it.  If you have a critique, it’s of all of us.  Now, do you?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, “but I’m not the only one confused by this, and I’m not certain your reluctance to share the truth will be so kindly received.”

She caught my hand as I turned to leave, and did not let go of it.  I accepted her guidance again, allowing her to think I was much weaker and less oriented with the space than I was, even though much of the new Civic Center was adapted from my own designs.

“I am not making a threat, Castellan,” she emphasized.  “I thought I was making you aware of something you could not see.”

“Now _that_ charge applies to me, Natima,” I said.

I wrestled with the idea of making my life as a public official slightly more public, if only to stop the ridiculous and petty accusations that grew in the shade of remaining mysterious.

“I genuinely meant no offense, Castellan,” she faltered, unnerved by the coldness of my tone.  “I have no business discussing your personal life with you or with anyone else.”

“Quite correct,” I said.  I declined her offer of accompanying me home, citing the cane I kept folded in my case.

I was looking forward to seeing what my partners were up to, although, recently, it was relatively tame.  As it was tonight, when I tapped on the bedroom door with my cane before entering.

“So when’s the enjoinment?” I joked.

Parmak and Bashir were nestled together in the bed, with Parmak leaning against the wall and Bashir leaning on his folded legs, cradling the egg between clasped hands.

“Who asked?” Bashir’s voice was quiet.  

I could not discern, from the distance, whether or not Parmak was asleep, but I matched my voice to Bashir’s volume.

“Apparently the entirety of congress was concerned with our… arrangement,” I proceeded toward the bed and sat down carefully on the edge of it, waiting for Bashir to open his arm to me.

Part of me expected him to refuse my company, confirming that all of my worries were well-founded.  But I was conscious of this thought process, now, and urged myself to be realistic.

“Kelas has been getting questions about it today as well,” Bashir laughed and hooked his arm around my shoulder, pulling me back to lean against him.  “Other than that, how was the session?”

“Progress on the non-Cardassian resident clause looks promising,” I explained.  “I think you’ll find a lot more people interested in you at the next session, Julian.  You may even join me.”

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate if we aren’t married,” his voice retained the end of a laugh.  “Some might start offering to have my children, again.”

“Well, it’s unlikely anyone will be able to focus until they’re satisfied none of us are adulterers.  I rewrote the requirements for adoption and residency, what more do they need?”

“I’m sure it’s just that Cardassian craving for the dramatic,” Bashir observed.  “They need something to talk about.”

“Heaven forbid they talk about the new public transport stops, the reconstructed buildings, or the progress toward trade export we’ve made this year, or-- or anything beyond our sleeping arrangements.  I announce that the day’s session is on non-Cardassians, and suddenly they’re all concerned you and Parmak and I are having every possible combination of affairs.”

I had not intended to raise my voice, but the frustration overwhelmed me.  Parmak’s eyes opened, and slowly he blinked at me.

“My dear Elim,” he began, “how was the session?”

I loved the slight glimmer in his eyes, dulled by sleep but enthusiastically reignited by his interest in everything I said.  As always, I longed to preserve it.

“I’m going to rewrite the enjoinment clause in time for next week’s vote,” I explained.

“Mmm,” he nodded, not expecting anything further.

I would need time to perfect my phrasing, so I reached to stroke his hair, encouraging him to go back to sleep.

My main motivation in not marrying either of them sooner was that this would put them in danger, should anything destabilize my political career.  But I would not want my sudden interest in the act to seem strictly political, either; I needed Parmak and Bashir to know that I cared for them and wanted to reflect my feelings in a language they understood.  

In any case, I thought it would probably be best for me to wait until the egg had hatched.  Bashir leaned over the side of the bed to secure her in her crate, then pinned me beneath a blanket and ordered the lights off.  

I could see Parmak’s eyes through the darkness, peering over the subtle rise-and-fall of Bashir’s chest.

“You had more to say than that,” Parmak declared, after a while.

I halfheartedly tried to shush him, pointing down at Bashir’s face, but he soon opened his eyes as well.  We never knew how quickly they were capable of falling asleep, humans, and Bashir often surprised us like this, sitting up and saying he wasn’t even asleep to begin with.  He was wondering if we were going to finish this conversation on our own or if we needed a moderator.

“I got questions about affairs today too, you know,” Parmak said.  I was ashamed for doubting his skill at perception. “Right after your session got out, Alon was at our door asking to see me in private.”

I struggled.

“I _refuse_ to allow _anyone_ to treat you that way.  Like you aren’t worthy of respect.”

“Alon’s a friend,” Parmak assured me. “He meant no offense.”

I sighed.

“I _knew_ my reputation would ruin you.  Both of you.”

I accepted that I could keep them safe from any attempts on their lives, but I couldn’t rewrite my past for them.  Not again, anyway.

“Elim,” Parmak said slowly.

“I never should have accepted the nomination,” I said.  “My work will not be taken seriously, and neither will our relationship.  That is all I have.”

“We are a part of that problem,” Parmak interpreted. “The relationship, of course, and that we pursued your nomination.”

“You were the most qualified and trusted by the majority,” Bashir recited.  “The Federation would not have sponsored an election if the winner wasn’t guaranteed.”

I did not find this comforting.

“You do not need to withdraw and you do not need to submit to enjoinment,” Parmak continued.

“I do not need to do both...” I said, in a vaguely questioning manner.

“Of course not,” said Parmak, politely leaning over Bashir in order to kiss my cheek.  “You should not volunteer for anything that makes you uncomfortable, my dear Elim.  You’ve done enough of that.”

My comfort, for the entirety of my training, was available at a premium.  I often faked what I couldn’t afford, more interested in subduing the other party than finding any peace for myself.  It was all I knew how to do.  Perhaps, if I continued to comfort my constituents and bring gentle reassurance to my partners, the effect would eventually return to me.  It could not evade me forever; nothing could, not even coming home.  I could not tell, yet, if this indicated a positive or negative self-development.

When I returned my attention to Bashir, whose eyes were shut again, I understood this was the pattern of most of his life, too.  Even Parmak, to a lesser degree.  

Yet somehow _I_ had become the healer my planet needed.  I shook my head and tried again to go to sleep.

⟡⟡⟡

I decided to conduct my work the next day from the garden shed.  While most of the district considered it a public place, I found I was not directly disturbed by anyone, even with my door wide open.  I sat and revised my proposals over the sounds of children playing in the makeshift tennis court while adults admired the flowers and the memorials.  Instead of uprooting the plants, however, they would take small pieces from the mounds they felt resembled their family name, and would set these gently beside the flower beds.  I watched an older woman unwind a cord from one of the mounds, then kneel to tie a loose bow around the base of a budding tulip.  We nodded at each other in acceptance.

I continued working undisturbed until I noticed Bashir walking by, leading the children home from their day of classes at the Orphanage.  These were open to all ages and taught by a team of volunteers (at Parmak’s suggestion) until I found time to re-establish a more formal system based on the information I gathered for a curriculum.  Bashir was teaching this week, supposedly walking the local children through his engineering extension courses, but really talking about tennis after one child made the mistake of mentioning the court on our property.  

Pazia stepped carefully through the sand, walking parallel to the net, until she was at the shed’s entrance.

“Julen asked if you wanted help?”

“Oh, did he?  From you?” I asked, tone light.

Having adopted older children, none of us expected to be called any variation of ‘Father.’  Parmak and I, in Cardassian tradition, often greeted them as ‘child’ while Bashir preferred to use their names.  In return, we both became ‘Uncles’ and Bashir became what their monolingual tongues made of his name: ‘Julen.’

“He said you’re writing more about the orphanage.  Are you?”

“I am, yes.  Ideally, I would like it to be empty and closed down by the end of the year.”

“What about the egg?  Won’t she have to go there?”

Since taking on the assignment of hatching, all three of us encouraged the children not to become attached to the egg.  We reminded them that we were not at an effective age to be fathers, and that being uncles suited us all just fine.  Bashir tried to look older and less disappointed than he truly was, but he knew another child was, realistically, the last thing our household needed.

“I hope we will find her a family before that happens.  Julen is interviewing for that possibility next week, in fact, after Proconsul Ghemor takes over the classes.  I am writing the questions now; is that what you wanted to help with?”

“I’m certain you write effective questions,” she decided.  

I was so pleased that she was able to return to school and regain her confidence, even if all she had learned about today was the idiosyncratic differences between Bajoran and Federation divider nets.

“What would you have asked _us_ , Pazia?”

She needed no time to compose her answer.

“Whether you could keep us safe, take care of us, and teach us.”

“I wish my questions could be so concise, child,” I turned to pat her fondly on the head.

“You must ask, also, if the adopter can always do these things.”

“If this answer is ‘yes,’” I prompted, “you wouldn’t mind if it was one adopter or a group?”

This time she paused, trying to gauge which tone I would respond best to.  I often did the same in mixed company, and taught her the strategy early in our relationship.

“No, I _don’t_ mind,” she corrected. “We were with one carer before, and she looked after us as long as she could.  Now there are three of you, and Nurse Sona, so we always have _someone_.”

I turned and offered her a place on my chair’s armrest, which she laughed at but ultimately climbed up to accept.

“Are you afraid of being alone?” I asked her.  

“Until you,” she said, using the plural form, “teach me not to be.”

“Very good,” I observed.  “I feel exactly the same.”

I stood and held out my arm, gesturing for her to walk along in front of me.  We passed the memorials in respectful silence, then entered the house.  I closed the door behind us, as was now customary on nights we were not expecting visitors.  Those who came by to mourn did not often disturb us.

Bashir caught sight of us and grinned.  He and Cidel were seated across from each other at the dining table, kneading pastry dough in a metal bowl that sat between them.  Parmak was to one side, reading.  He took my hand when I sat in the chair beside him.

“We are thinking of going with you to the Oralian meeting this week,” Parmak explained.

I nodded.

“But only if you’ll have us,” Bashir added.  “I don’t want to make things awkward.”

“The meetings often feel that way, even without your expert interference,” I assured.  

Without the excitement that accompanied the former illegality of the religion, many participants felt strange in sharing their identities and in welcoming new members.  The appearance of a human would not change these circumstances very much, I thought, especially if we found him a mask to wear.

“I posted the interview schedule today at the orphanage,” Bashir said, “and one of the Guides contacted me almost immediately about the egg.

I did not need to hear any more.


	14. Bridges

I hoped I was the only one feeling uncomfortable at the Oralian meeting that week.  Pazia and Cidel - as with everything else - were given the option not to attend, but both of them expressed an interest and stood in between us at the ritual’s conclusion, reaching for our hands.  I stood in the very center of our group, where I thought I had a better chance of being ignored by the drifting gazes of other participants.  

Cidel waited until the verses were recited before tugging my sleeve and asking me to repeat the parts he hadn’t heard.  On his other side, Bashir squeezed his hand and directed his attention to the illustrations on the wall for clarification, instead.

We lingered behind with several others who held friendly conversations, waiting until Kel had replaced her mask on its perch and prepared to close the hall for the night.  Bashir readied his PADD of interview questions, in case I declared things optimistic.  But I did not see much possibility of that.

“Ah, Castellan,” she said, before I even attempted to make eye contact, “you’ve brought your family tonight.”

These were the first words she ever said to me.  I did not know what else to expect.  Hatred?  Dismissal?  Perhaps I expected her not to speak to me at all, like I rightfully deserved.  She owed nothing to me, even though I owed thousands of apologies to her.  And I wanted to avoid giving them forever.  

 _Progress_ , I told myself, and cautiously approached her outstretched hand.  Cautiously, because progress can be made in either direction.

After our weak handshake, she led us all to the adjoined room which held the friezes.  She gestured at one of the sculpted figures and spoke.

“I have tried to cast pieces to match this one,” she said.  “I found the rite of death too intimidating, all on its own.”

I did not know how to reply, so I nodded solemnly.  I was working on forming my apology but, as a service to Kel, I wanted to make sure I included everything that harmed her.  I was thankful to have the support of my family at this time, but also ashamed that I denied Kel this feeling.

“So I tried to cast pieces for birth and childhood,” she continued.  “I had never worked with clay before, but another Guide was willing to apprentice me.”

She sat at one of the low, cushioned seats beside the wall and welcomed us to sit on the one that faced her.  I had never seen Pazia listen so intently. 

“Did you learn?” Pazia asked, looking eagerly at the other statues in the room, hoping to assign Kel’s name to the most detailed and beautiful.

“Over time,” Kel replied, “I did.  I learned more about the process than my own skill.”

She sought my eyes and held them until I feared I might cry; I did not see any pain in hers.  I was always good at seeing and repurposing the pain, but I could not see any.  Maybe she had moved past this into cold hatred.  I would not blame her.

“Sometimes we dug clay that was gritty or filled with pebbles.  Sometimes it was thick like mud, and other times weak and runny with water.  Even with good clay, I have had pieces crack in the kiln, and glazes that did not take to the finished glass.  What I learned, most of all, is that often - in order to get a result I would be proud of - I needed to start over completely.  No investment of hard work can change the circumstances of fate.”

Kel dropped her gaze from mine and looked at the floor in resignation.

Even with his years of observing my methods, Bashir did not take all of my lessons to heart.  Although I was sometimes grateful, because his willingness to be forward and therapeutic was often more necessary than my carefully-guarded distance.  He tapped his PADD nervously before leaning in to speak.

“And you’re looking at adoption as a way of starting over?” he asked.

He read every word I wrote about Kel, and every regret that existed between the lines of text.  He understood, then, my reluctance to speak, even when he reached to touch my back.  I needed more time and more space; Parmak agreed with a slow nod.

“I am,” she said, directly.

“I’m sorry,” I spoke softly, anxiously.  “I don’t deserve a chance to start over.”

Her gaze returned to me, but only for a moment.

“That may be true, but it is not for either of us to decide.  You must _know_ , Mister Garak--”

I froze.  Of course she knew my name, but how much did she know of its history?

“--that I have recognized you at the meetings the last four years, mask or not.  I know the orphanage is named for my mother.  I know about your memorial garden and about all the graves you’ve dug.  I know of your election and your surgery.  I know of your family and your strength.  Through all of this, I can see that your intentions have changed… in a way, fate has allowed you to start over already, and left _me_ behind.  Did you consider that?”

At the mention of Palandine, I bowed my head respectfully.  If Kel knew anything else about her, she would have shared it, I was certain.  I planned to modify the memorial sites as soon as we returned home, just as I reminded myself to never stop searching for her.  For Kel, now, not for myself.

I felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes, and, at the same time, I felt Bashir drawing small circles on my back.  Parmak, Pazia, and Cidel all took turns looking at me, turning away when they understood their attention would not improve my condition.  Not yet.

“The thought did occur to me,” I said flatly.

“I think it will be good for you, that we finally spoke,” she concluded.

I liked how she did not subject herself to any of her claims.  It was not about her; she was still free to hate and mistrust me and did not need to waste her breath telling me about it.  Although I did not get this impression from her, I admired the ambiguity.

I nodded.  She stood, as did my partners, while the children remained behind with me on the bench.

Bashir provided her with a chip from the PADD, along with a paper version in case she lacked reliable power.  Parmak eagerly shook her hand and thanked her for what he considered an inspiring and illuminating recitation.  She directed him to further studies, indicating several points along the story that spiraled up to the ceiling, and assured him he was welcome any time.

“You’ve cited these pillars for family,” Parmak said, approaching a lone statue with its arms extended.  He gazed reverently and reached forward to touch it, after asking Kel’s permission.  “I was curious about the, um, definition, and whether y--”

Kel joined him, cupping her hand around the figure’s arm.  They were not facing me, but I got the impression she was smiling, based on the light tone of her voice and the small breath she took before commencing.

“I know about the enjoinment revisions,” she added, “and there is certainly a place for the Way at your ceremony.”

I appreciated this family’s ability to walk me into traps, like the bait was there to nourish me and the fences were meant to keep me safe.

“Thank you,” I told her, hoping she knew how strongly I meant it.  “If you’re ever able to believe my apologies, please just call for me.”

In case my words were unclear, as I knew they often were, I rearranged the memorials as soon as we arrived home that night.  It was raining - which, on ravaged Cardassia - meant everything was pelted with dirty specks of brown and grey.  

The children went inside to prepare the fireplace and something warm for us all to drink when the work was done, while Parmak carefully took the pieces I passed to him and Bashir stretched out his coat to hold over our heads.

I consulted seven different piles to find pieces I thought would reflect my sorrow and Palandine’s gentle devotion to improving the world around her.  Parmak asked if I wanted them arranged in any particular order, but I shook my head and remained focused on my digging.  

In the end, it was short but more steady than the others, thanks to the sealing effects of the mud droplets.  It was like one of Kel’s pottery castings.

Parmak intelligently arranged the items I chose for him on a wooden tabletop, leaving room for flowers in each corner.  There were several pieces of a broken vase, a funerary stole, a small cage meant for transporting voles, an empty perfume vial, my prescribed cane, and every silk flower petal I could find.  These were invariably torn and stained, but they filled the cracked vase nicely and did not threaten to blow away.  It was just as well; I was never able to give her anything clean or safe.

I took several paces backward to admire my work.  Bashir slapped the coat over my shoulders, a gesture to show his concern for me; he could endure the rest of our time outside better if he knew I was comfortable.  Parmak gave him the most impressed and gentle smile I’d ever seen, before turning to study my finished memorial.

“It’s wonderful, Elim,” he decided.

“It isn’t done,” I countered.

“Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“No,” I tried not to sound upset, “it won’t be, until I can apologize.”

Parmak declared this ‘admirable’ and led me inside.  

⟡⟡⟡

I had very little knowledge, or initial interest, in the traditions that accompanied marriage.  What Palandine taught me of the closing dances was as far as my practical knowledge extended.  

Of course, I had no examples at my disposal.  Mila and Tolan never required a ceremony, not even to validate their charade.  There were no tokens or records of it anywhere in the household.  I wasn’t sure who moved into the house afterward, but they left no such documents behind either.

Most of Parmak’s impressions were based on Bajoran traditions, while Bashir’s were thoroughly Federation.  

“Bajorans use bracelets in the same way humans use rings,” Parmak explained one afternoon.

We were sitting together in the study, with the children scrolling through a selection of my growing record collection, trying to agree on one to read and illustrate.  It was a new hobby of Pazia’s, which Bashir delighted in and encouraged.  He would have reacted that way to any of the children’s interests or talents, providing a delicate balance to the Cardassian tradition of molding every individual to fit a need.  

“Our lack of a physical representation of the relationship may have contributed to infidelity in the past,” Parmak suggested.  

His informal study of relationships intrigued me greatly, and I could never find a point weak enough to argue.  But I would become a figure in the control group of his research soon enough, and had no desire to ruin his theories.

“You’re saying some badge will stop anyone else being interested in you?”

“In _me_ personally, my dear?”

“Not what I meant, Kelas, but I wouldn’t dismiss your charms so cheaply.”

He chuckled to himself and passed his manuscript across the table to me.

“Humans have dances as well,” he said, indicating a typeset line beneath an illustration.

“And dreary, restrictive clothing,” I observed.  “I couldn’t be paid enough to wear a tuxedo ever again.  And I’m afraid I don’t… _understand_ the gown; it looks much too heavy to dance in.”

Parmak shrugged and turned the book back around.  

“Ah,” Parmak said, after flipping through a few pages, “not _all_ humans wear rings, of course.  Surgeons often do not wear them, it says here.”

“Hmm,” I said, with passing interest.  “Maybe he would prefer a bracelet.”

“I can braid some,” Pazia offered, without looking up from her folder.

⟡⟡⟡

Bashir rarely visited me while I was working at the Civic Center, and I later learned he needed to ask the ever-present Proconsul Lang for directions to my office.

He stood in the open doorway and softly said my name to break my attention from my reading.  With my purposely diminished vision, he was always slow in approaching me, and this time he held out his hands and set my PADD on my desk.

“You left this at home,” he explained.  “I was on my way to an appointment and this light started blinking…?”

He turned the device over and indicated a round, yellow light at its base.  

“And, of course,” he continued, fondly, “Kelas and I can’t _read_ any of the symbols, so I--"

“Thank you, Julian,” I tried not to sound too interested.  “I hope your appointment goes well.”

He looked at me, unimpressed, and kissed the top of my head before departing.  I knew he would ask about it later, and I would tell him everything he needed to know.  Usually, my personal communiques were not relevant to him, but I was happy to share the stories after giving myself time to work out the important details.  If I lied to him anymore, it was only for his benefit.

When he was gone, I stood and shut the door and hoped I wasn’t too late to accept my message.  I unlocked the screen and drew open the video notification.

The figure spun in his seat, relieved to hear an answer to his call.

“Elim,” he said.

“Pythas,” I replied.  “Still not a ghost - I’m thankful.  It’s so good to hear from you.”

I wanted to take his hand, but a slow nod would have to suffice.  Despite this, my fingers crawled toward the screen and stroked the frame.  I noticed Pythas laughing softly.

“Look at me, Elim, would you?”

I obliged, focusing on his one working eye.

“Mmm,” he drawled, “but your vision has improved?”

Any useful words dropped from my throat and rattled in my heart.  Why had I never reached out to help him?  The answer was as cloudy as the rest of my impressions of him, cloudy but strong, like some of the teas Bashir made us.

“Yes,” I said.

He read the staggering desperation from my expression.

“No need to worry, Elim,” he offered, leaving the end open to my interpretation.  “I understand how busy you’ve become.  But you can give me the name of your surgeon, can’t you?”

“Of course,” I tapped my screen and forwarded him the whole of Bashir’s information folder.  “You must come and stay with us.”

I watched his finger swiping repeatedly across the top of the screen as he skimmed the text.

“Yes, I would like to,” he said gently.  “I will, when you aren’t… otherwise engaged.”

I returned his smile.

“If you are well, I would be delighted to see you at the ceremony.  We’ve so much to catch up on.”

“I will be in touch again, I hope, after that.”

⟡⟡⟡

I hated Entek’s face the moment I saw it on the screen.  Where I expected Pythas’s delicate features and relieved greetings, I got Entek’s dull eyes and frustrated rage.  Of course I was quick to mask my signal, but he had already seen me, recognized me, and heard me demand Pythas.  I hoped I had not placed my old friend in any danger, trying to spend his name on favors I could not afford.  Especially not if he had been replaced by someone as ruthless and narrowly-focused as Entek.

I went to Quark’s, hoping to bid on more information.

When I arrived, Dukat was walking out of the back storeroom, led by Quark and a Glinn I had not seen before.  Clearly, Dukat had taken in enough alcohol to think himself desirable and his advances charming.  

I kept my chufa painted blue on purpose so I could exploit his attention on nights like this.  He saw my profession as more scientific than militaristic already, and I made the decision to take pride in this, instead of the shame Dukat hoped for.  Getting to watch him approach me with that cool arrogance and then backpedal as soon as he realized it was me and not a new female Cardassian was well worth the minute it took to apply the makeup.  Tonight, I was hoping to keep him confused for long enough to hear what had happened in the storeroom.  

Dukat clapped his hand over my shoulder, spinning my seat so we faced each other.  I had miscalculated; he immediately drew his head away from mine.

“Well, Garak,” he said, gaze stuck in my makeup, “that wasn’t _completely_ intolerable, was it?”

“I don’t remember complaining as often as you did,” I explained.  It was best when neither of us knew what we were discussing.  Threats hurt less when they were hollow.

Instead of answering, he laughed, waved dismissively at Quark, and continued out of the bar with the Glinn shaking his head and following.  

“What can I get you, Garak?” Quark asked, without giving me a chance to speak, “Kanar, or do you go for something stronger on a night like this?”

“Like this?” I echoed, “It seems a normal night to _me_ , Quark, unless you have something to tell me.”

He poured the kanar beside a shot of something I did not recognize, and snapped his fingers in epiphany.

“Now that you mention it,” he began, “there are a few things I was told _not_ to tell you.”

“Mmm,” I said, accepting the kanar and avoiding the unfamiliar drink.  If this was Dukat’s attempt at drugging me, I would never complain about him underestimating my intelligence again.  

Quark began scrubbing the counter with a rag to keep himself occupied, but it did not seem sufficient.

“But available for a price, I assume,” I continued.

“Don’t trust a man wearing a better suit than your own,” he recited, reluctant to come up with anything original.

“Unless that man makes your suits,” I concluded.  “Now, what were you about to tell me?”

He ducked beneath the counter to retrieve a bottle and refresh my kanar.  I sighed but knew better than to protest.  Quark did not like to do business with anyone rude enough to refuse his overbearing hospitality, nor with anyone who could not maintain their sensibilities through his sustained supply of drinks.

To share my awareness of his tactic, I smiled, took up the glass, and drank half of it before making another attempt at our deal.

“I would never take advantage of your position, Quark,” I said.  “I am willing to pay for every word you tell me.”

He nudged the unfamiliar glass toward me, now, as well.

“This is a Federation drink,” he said.  “Gul Dukat thought you might like a chance to try it before they get here.”

“Federation?”

Again, he replenished the kanar.  I studied the shot glass incredulously, and did not drink from either one.

“They’re getting involved with Bajor,” he said, before counting his words and asking if he could be more specific, for added strips of latinum.  

“No, I think I’ve heard enough,” I said.  As promised, I provided him with compensation for his words and the unwanted drinks.  Then I stood and surveyed my surroundings.

I was right, when I spoke earlier - nothing _looked_ out of the ordinary.  Even Dukat’s intoxication and nameless companion were fairly typical.  So if the Federation was becoming involved, I guessed it would not happen immediately or dramatically.  I assumed Quark was trying to appear like he knew more than he did.  But that doesn’t incline interrogators to let their victims go; it only frustrates them.

I turned back toward him, and leaned forward on the bar with both arms.  

“Before the Federation gets _too_ involved, I need you to locate someone for me.  There isn’t any rush.”

He looked reluctant to take the job, even when I mentioned the fee and then threatened to go to Rom for help instead.  None of my usual tactics were working; whatever Dukat said to him had shaken him more than he was letting on.  I continued.

“I can give you name, place of birth--”

Quark sighed and shook his head, tapping his wrists impatiently against the ledge of the bar.

“ _Pythas Lok_ ,” I whispered, “from th--”

“Garak!” he shoved me away and rushed to quiet his voice.  “This isn’t the place… you’ll be in your quarters tonight, won’t you?  Alone?”

There was no reason for Pythas’s name to shock him; even Dukat would not have shared anything about him, out of fear of Obsidian Order retaliation.  No, this was the extent of Quark’s knowledge.  He was going to pretend he had more to sell me, but I could see he did not, and the way he snapped ‘a _lone?_ ’ didn’t make me feel any better.

“Yes, I believe I will,” I said pleasantly.

We agreed to meet there at 0130 hours.

I took the glass of kanar with me as I left.  I was expecting something to be wrong with my quarters when I arrived, but I could not see anything out of place or feel any discrepancies in the air or its temperature.

What I was not expecting was a sudden jolt of energy from my implant.  I tried to keep myself focused while I dug for my triggering device.  It was exactly where I left it, completely intact.

The feeling of pleasure overwhelmed me until I dropped the trigger and moved desperately to my bed.  I sat in the center of it, unsure of what to do next.  I recognized that I was not thinking clearly, but was too far gone to correct the problem.  Every part of my body felt warm, like I was floating in water, and my fingers twitched in constant anticipation.  Of what?  

Soon, I found myself repeating Pythas’s name into my pillow, failing to make good use of my shaking hands.  The feeling existed already - I did not _need_ to use my hands - so I stood and paced the room instead, irritated with my inability to focus.  There is nothing more devastating to someone trained to practice mental discipline their entire life.  I do not even recall how I fell asleep.  

I never heard Quark at my door, and no record of his visit appeared on my computer log.

When I awoke, I was exhausted.  And, as I soon discovered, I was the only Cardassian on the station.

My impressions of the previous night were cloudy; I found I could switch off my device as usual, but the memories were immediately traded away for this privilege.

Maybe the kanar was altered in some way, and the other drink was merely Odo keeping an eye on us.  Maybe Quark _did_ know how soon the Federation was arriving, but was afraid to tell me, even for the money.  Maybe Dukat did not intend to leave me behind, and I was netted by someone else.  The crumbling factions of the Order, most likely.  They knew I was looking for Pythas.

Regardless, I had a hard time thinking about him afterward.  Nothing about our times together made sense anymore.

I restarted the implant on its lowest setting, to see if this would help restore the memories.  Desperate to recover them, I never switched it off again.  


	15. Responsibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guide had to repeat the first line of my intended vows to me.
> 
> I was relieved to not have any expectations about the ceremony, which left me the options of being endlessly impressed or only mildly discouraged.

“Of course,” Bashir’s voice was gentle.

We looked back and forth at each other, across the low table in the common room.  

“I understand,” he added, when I could not meet his gaze anymore.

I had finished sharing the details of my communication with Pythas, and Bashir began digging through timetables on his PADD to set up appointments for consultations and surgery.

“But he didn’t _say_ he was in danger?” Bashir longed to confirm.

“I wish I could be more certain, Julian,” I said.  “I must admit I’ve lost some of my ability to read his face.”

“And his face has lost some of its ability to communicate, as well.”

Still, our short interaction had unnerved me enough to go to Bashir for help immediately, instead of waiting to age the details beyond their usefulness like I usually did.  

“But if you’d like to bring him here, I think you should,” Bashir concluded, still focused intently on his keypad. “You’ve good instincts for that sort of thing.”

I shuddered at the thought.

“He said he _hoped_ to be in touch again after our ceremony.”

“He would’ve told you if he needed you urgently, though, right?”

I weighed the possibilities, nodding my head briefly to each side, clicking my tongue.

“It took him all this time to find me again.”

“Yes,” Bashir said, expectantly.

“I invited him to the ceremony.”

“That’s fine.”

“I doubt he’ll attend, however.”

“Also fine.  You wanted it to be private.”

Bashir had become very patient and reassuring when I told the truth to him, even when all I could manage to be was disjointed.  

I appreciated having my requests relayed back to me, as I sometimes genuinely forgot them, and other times I tried dividing them to yield more results, even though this was no longer necessary to facilitate my relationships or my success.  

I wanted a private ceremony, where the details could be broadcast later to anyone who was concerned with more than the outcome.

I shrugged and tried too hard to lighten the atmosphere.

“How are your preparations going?” I asked.  

Bashir’s sigh changed into a helpless laugh at the end.

“Chief O’Brien and his family can’t make it either, but he _did_ get my request for sand, at least.”

“Oh?”

“He thought it was a bit ridiculous, at first, but he said he went and filled a vase for me, and it’s on the next trade route to Bajor. 

“So it will arrive along with Kelas’s…?”

“Exactly.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

Based on Parmak’s interpretation of the texts Kel provided him, the highlight of our ceremony was to be the intertwining of our individual fatelines.  We found several symbolic ways to demonstrate this; the first was to pour together soil from the places each of us called ‘home,’ and then to grow something from within the mixture.  I had a feeling he designed this activity especially for me, as he often leaned over my shoulder to read along when I studied the most compatible plants.  

The others involved literal braiding and jewelry, to satisfy both his and Bashir’s understanding of the concept.  I was looking forward to learning from them, while overseeing the growth of our flowers.

I turned and cleared my throat.

“And I need only to go out to the shed to fill _my_ vase.”

Bashir smiled, unsure of what to say next.  He did this often, for as long as I’d known him.  Not that it ever stalled his speaking, but it was an admirable precaution.

“It’s interesting you’d still call that ‘home,’ Garak.”

“Oh?  Why shouldn’t I?”

He attempted the smiling trick again, to the same result.

“There isn’t anything _wrong_ with it - anyway I’m not sure where else you _would_ go - I just… I was just wondering.  I didn’t mean to--”

“I can hardly collect soil from the station, my dear.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And Kelas is taking his from a Bajoran temple.  Perhaps I’ve misunderstood the assignment; is yours from _your_ home?”

He shrugged and said his was from a rooftop garden that faced his dormitory at the medical academy he attended in Paris.  Apparently O’Brien jokingly confirmed this was better than going anywhere near his childhood home.

“I see,” I nodded.  “So ‘home’ is used in the sense of somewhere significant, not as in ‘place of origin.’  It’s wherever you learned to understand yourself.”

“Essentially - yes - I’d say that’s true,” Bashir ran one hand back through his hair, as he always did, now, when it fell into his line of sight. “And that’s more important in the end, isn’t it?”

I laughed once, fondly.

“It’s refreshing to hear from your Federation side every now and then.”

This time, when he nodded, he let his hair fall into his face.  He wasn’t ready to let me see his performative Cardassian side so easily, now that he knew I was aware of it.

“I believe there _is_ somewhere else I can go,” I declared, already torn between two possibilities.

⟡⟡⟡

I had not kept a close eye on the Institute since I left it.  After so many years and wars, I doubted to find the Wilderness reserve intact.  Even though it was a place I discovered and practiced my strengths, I did not pursue it as a meaningful lead.

I went instead to the Tarlak gardens, which existed now as a separate asylum district, housing residents and social services like the complex we built in the storefronts near our home.  It fell under the jurisdiction of a young and eager proconsul, who I knew I could count on for whatever assistance I needed.  But I needed none; I refused Hiret’s kind offers of a tour and various building safety inspections.  I knew the garden area well, and preferred to see it the way I remembered it, instead of the way a new generation could describe it.

Slowly, I lowered myself to sit on the bench facing the greenspace.  The grass and the seating arrangements were newly installed.  

It was so easy to picture Palandine there, dancing by with Kel under her arm, laughing and blinking heavily against the sunshine.  I imagined her releasing her hair from its jeweled net after their dance was complete; she would step toward this bench to relax, and would run her hands through her hair while Kel continued playing.

I was thankful Proconsul Hiret left me alone with my visions.  They became more frequent - but less unnervingly realistic - as my prescriptions changed to accommodate my recovery.  

“It isn’t as bad as you think it is,” the projection of Palandine assured me, “raising her alone.”

“Certainly,” I replied, unconvinced. “Regardless, I regret that I cannot offer any help.”

“Oh, you _do_ help, Elim, in your own way.”

I put my hand on hers - really, the cold metal of the armrest - and she smiled down at this.

“But if there is anything more that needs to be done--” I insisted.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

As she left the bench, she dissipated.  I followed her path to the edge of the property line, where I knelt to collect the dirt I had traveled for.

With the glass filled, I returned to the public transport and boarded it.  I sat and nodded at the other passengers, who looked at me with a mixture of recognition and restraint.  One mother expressed, quietly, her approval of my adoption policies, indicating one of her three children.  I thanked her and asked for a moment of privacy; I could feel clouds forming in my head, and also felt my communicator buzzing within my case.

I moved to the vacant compartment at the back of the tram, set down my case on one of the seats, and pried it open.  Before answering the message, I took one of my new analgesics with water.  

“Elim, my dear?” Parmak’s voice said, when I turned up the volume on the communicator.

“Mmm, Kelas,” I replied, like I was sighing into his shoulder at bedtime.  “What is it?”

“Kel Lokar is here to pick up the egg.  She wanted to know if she needed to wait for you to finalize the documents and--”

“No, of course not,” I interrupted.  I had seen enough of Kel today in my vision, and believed that if we were meant to encounter each other again in the physical realm, we would.  

“Express my gratitude and good-wishes,” I concluded.

“Certainly, Elim.  She says the same.”

“And, if she needs any help with the child, remind her to ask for… well, not for me, I suppose.  Give her Doctor Jessel’s details.  Kel won’t need to--”

I ended the transmission.  I did not want Kel to suffer through any more repetitions of my name - even if it was Parmak gentle rendition - and shuddered at the thought of our looming ceremony.

⟡⟡⟡

I recalled one instance of a wedding in my past, where Tolan was commissioned to design flower arrangements.  We dropped the completed pieces off in the morning, however, and did not stay until the customary evening ceremony.  I was, at the time, blissfully unaware that the State saw any further potential in me, and sat on the floor clipping stems as Tolan’s apprentice.

He held up his sketch, gently correcting the angle I was cutting into the Vulcan poppies.

“They symbolize longevity in the connection,” he explained, “so you mustn’t make their edges so sharp.”

I nodded and shoved the ruined flowers aside, reaching instead for new ones, but Tolan caught my hand and drew it backward.

“You mustn’t just give up on them either.  The connections, I mean,” he advised.  “You can always repair them.”

He passed me a set of shears with a rounded blade along with a reminder that this work required patience.  

“ _Garak_ ,” Bashir nudged me out of this fantasy, “will you hurry up in there?”

I made a final appraisal of myself in the mirror before inviting Bashir in.  I took the prepared poppy from the countertop and tucked it into my collar, while Bashir slid up against me for use of the mirror.  

“Certainly, Julian,” I replied, without moving over.

I felt him sigh over my shoulder, and he leaned in to ruffle his hair with his hands.

“Kelas is there already, you know,” I continued.

“Mm,” nodded Bashir, “because he’s not even _slightly_ concerned that you’ll stand us up.”

“I always tell him he thinks too much of me,” I turned over my shoulder in time to watch Bashir give up on his hair.  “But really, Julian, when have I _ever_ failed to keep an appointment with either one of you?”

“Good point, but let’s not start now.”

He laughed and extended his arm to me, apparently content to lead me all the way to the gardens at the edge of the property line.  

As promised, Parmak was there already, talking to a masked and hooded figure - our Guide.  Nurse Sona was there also, setting up a chair between the children.  We held the ceremony in a public place, but very late in the evening.  We did not expect any other spectators, beyond any mourners who might watch casually on their walks home.  I usually preferred not to attract attention.

This concept was foreign to Bashir who, in turn, settled on an appearance foreign to us.  Those who were not familiar with his residency were surprised enough at the sight of his skin, his facial hair, his Federation lab coat.  The suit he selected for tonight was a similarly blinding shade of blue which - while it hardly benefited my eyes - supposedly complemented them.  And his makeup, which Parmak always helped apply.

Parmak was dressed much more sensibly, in a loose green tunic that rolled off of one of his shoulders, depending on which way he leaned.  I also learned - that morning, when he requested my opinion on a piece of jewelry - that he had the gaps between several of his scales pierced while living on Bajor.  Thin, shimmering chains accented the curve of his jaw, and beads ran from there down the sides of his neck, ending at the base.  His hair was tightly pulled up, elegantly framing the grey at his temples for display.  

I struggled to recall a time I had been surrounded by such beauty, let alone able to enjoy it privately.  I was told the ceremony would not take long, as it was conducted under the faint and shortlived light of the Blind Moon, but I wondered if I could stall the proceedings in order to continue basking in the unique beauty of my partners.  

“The lighting will be better for you at the reception,” Bashir explained, after I spent too long staring at him.  

The Guide had to repeat the first line of my intended vows to me.

I was relieved to not have any expectations about the ceremony, which left me the options of being endlessly impressed or only mildly discouraged.

The Guide was not Kel, but someone sent in her place with apologies and assurances she was busy with the new child (which wisely waited to be out of my care before hatching.)  The official components were brief; we signed my legally revised licenses, exchanged braided cords, and mixed our collected sands into a single vase.  With the rituals complete, the three of us were directed to extend our hands to each other, so we could all share the connection.

“May your fatelines overlap forever,” the Guide said, in conclusion.  

Bashir seemed to be on the verge of tears when he leaned in to kiss me.  All I could think to do was squeeze his hand, which he immediately repeated back.  

When Parmak was sure we ‘understood each other’ - his favorite phrasing - he and Bashir traded places before leaning away to kiss each other.  It was an adaptation of a human custom which Parmak and I were more than happy to accommodate.  

“May our fatelines overlap forever,” I echoed, believing - perhaps for the first time - in every word I said.

Sona decided that standing and applauding would be appropriate; the children seemed thrilled to join her, and offered their congratulations in cheers instead of words.

We walked together to the reception hall, in one wide line until the door required us to separate.  The reception was held in the lower level of the storefront we rebuilt together, the center of our expanding district.  It was also open to the public, and received more attention as we offered food and gifts to anyone who visited us.  The room was full of familiar faces when we arrived, all politely asking about the ceremony and wondering what to call us.  Bashir blushed, hard, when he said ‘husbands.’

After the dinner plates were cleared and the guests departed, we stayed together at our table.  

Sona stopped by to deposit our vase, which she kindly carried along to the hall while we were occupied with holding each other’s hands.  She set it in the center of the table and bowed slightly toward it.

“You will be very happy together,” she said, like she knew this fact as well as I did.  “Your connection is a blessed one.”

Parmak and Bashir then thanked her by first name, which I did not yet feel comfortable doing.  She nodded, either to encourage me or to accept my mere use of her title, I could not tell.

“Are you sure three days is all you’re taking?” she continued.  “Pazia and Cidel can stay with me for as long as you need, I don’t mind.”

Parmak held up his hand, as I would have done to Bashir about a decade ago, when he was halfway through making an argument I deemed fundamentally ridiculous.

“We couldn’t let them feel we’d forgotten them,” he said gently.  

“Three days is perfect.  Well, three days and tonight,” Bashir tried a second angle.  I knew it took several to get any Bajoran to relent.

“I cannot be away from my office any longer, Sona,” I concluded.

“Sure, Castellan,” she said, voice barely inclining to tease me.  She left to collect Pazia and Cidel from the tile where they were dancing like Julen taught them.

We waved at each other, smiling affectionately as they left the hall.  Only the three of us remained.

Bashir smiled at me between sips of the replicated _riesling_ he shared with Parmak, always swirling the glass before setting it down.

“It was nice of you to indulge us,” Parmak seemed to translate this from Bashir’s modulating expressions.  

“I found it rather enjoyable,” I agreed.

“Hmm,” sighed Parmak, eager to draw more out of me.

I nodded and continued.

“I enjoy every moment we are able to spend together.”

Bashir folded one arm up on the table and leaned his head against his fist.  

“Then you _are_ looking forward to this weekend?” he asked, voice low and eyes glinting.

As far as I understood it, Bashir’s abridged interpretation of a _honeymoon_ meant the three of us would be spending our entire weekend together.  We were generally content to focus on strengthening the available pairings while one of us was away.  Nearly every night, we slept in the same bed, and regarded this time as precious.

“More than anything,” I decided.

“I hope one day is enough to demonstrate our devotion,” Parmak said lightly. “Have you thought about what you want to do?”

At Parmak’s suggestion, we were each allotted one of the three days, on which the other two would take care of our needs and encourage our interests.  I worked together with Bashir to surprise Parmak, and the opposite, but the others understood I was not fond of surprises.  They worked tirelessly to solicit my opinion.  

“I have not found time to give it any thought,” I explained.  “Only now am I losing my fixation on our ceremony.”

Bashir nodded and passed the glass to Parmak.  He understood, now, that what he would’ve called ‘stubbornness’ at our initial meeting on the station was really a deep preoccupation that our society encouraged.  And one that I enjoyed, when the subject was something other than my familial relationships.

I waited until after they finished their shared drink to announce the time, and the duration of the journey required to reach the house where we would be spending the weekend.  It was purposely built in a secluded patch of forest, and was offered as a perk to many generations of head archons.  As we rebuilt the judicial system, my councilmembers enthusiastically offered its keys to me, even though I only wanted to use it once.  

We stood together and cleared the tables, storing the leftover food for the next visitors.  With the work complete, Bashir hooked his arm around my waist and led me outside.  Parmak followed closely, and took my hand when he caught up with us.  I felt the bracelet Pazia braided for him as our wrists pressed against it, embossing its pattern into my skin.

I expected Parmak to pull away when he became aware of this, but instead he pressed his hand closer, watching my reaction.

“She did a very nice job on the braids,” I said.

“Yes, perfect,” said Parmak.  “Vibrant and complementary, alternating between the center and the supports--”

“I wasn’t asking for one of your metaphors, Kelas,” I said with a smile.

“--delicately beaded,” he continued.  He liked to make me feel I was uncovering symbolism on my own and that he had nothing to do with it.

“Ooh, what a way to talk to your husband,” Bashir sarcastically suggested to me.  From the way his voice treated this new title, I could tell it was going to become his favorite; to read, to write, to hear, and to speak.

We continued our walk to the transport site in content silence, watching the stars glowing over our skin.  The shuttle trip was quiet too, and much shorter than Bashir claimed when the arrangements were made, when he valiantly offered to navigate while Parmak and I slept in the passenger seat.  He squeezed our shoulders to wake us, and kept hold of them to lead us inside the house.  Our provisions had been sent ahead earlier in the week; we spent the late hours of the night unpacking and integrating them into the household, then rearranging the bed chamber and fueling the fireplace.

Parmak and I were already comfortable in the bed when Bashir joined us, joyously remarking that we had our own blankets and did not need to trap him beneath a shared one.  He thought the house was warm already, and said this counted as more than enough of a wedding present.

When the lights dimmed, allowing Parmak and I to see him better, he turned to study each of us for a moment before returning his attention to the ceiling.  

“I wouldn’t disturb any of your plans for tomorrow if I were to sleep in a bit, would I?” he asked.  

“This is nothing like what I read of human wedding night traditions,” Parmak said, amused.

Bashir put his hand over his eyes and shook his head, but did not speak.

“It is your day tomorrow, after all,” I assured.  

“But I’d hate t--”

“My _dear_ husband,” I said, touching his cheek and waiting to feel its inevitable flush, “take all the time you need.”


	16. Interludes

“Should we wake him?” I asked, nudging Parmak’s arm.

Parmak shook his head.

“Let me at least make his coffee first,” he offered.

While he left to plead with the dust-covered replicator, I unpacked the case of paints and brushes Parmak brought specifically for Bashir’s day of the celebration.  Bashir, meanwhile, continued ‘sleeping in’ in the center of the bed, burrowed beneath blankets from both sides, his skin only occasionally catching the sunlight when he turned over and tangled the fabric.

“Morning,” he eventually said, from under the stolen and supposedly unwanted blankets.

“Good morning, Julian,” Parmak replied, setting down his coffee on the table beside the bed, then trying to coax Bashir out of the middle so he could drink it.

I sat beside them both on the edge of the bed, opening the case and distributing the paints across the table.  Parmak caught Bashir’s shoulder, setting him gently against the headboard after he tried to get up in a hurry.  

“There’s no need for that,” Parmak explained.  “We’ve built the day for you, after all.”

Bashir folded his legs up so they touched his chest, then accepted Parmak’s offer of the coffee mug.

“You can stay right here as long as you like; Elim and I can get started immediately.  May I?” Parmak curled his fingers over the top seam of the blanket.

“Oh, I--” Bashir watched me swirl two brushes in the tin of water, then was quiet.  He nodded and Parmak proceeded, rolling the silk slowly down until it rested at his waist.

I passed Parmak a brush and a vial.  The first coat would be thick, like plaster, and grey.

“It is important to us that you feel included,” I explained.

Parmak held Bashir’s cheek, kissed it, and then pulled away enough to begin his painting, outlining Bashir’s face with imagined ridges.  Parmak covered only the forehead and eyes, leaving his jawline alone in favor of his beard.

With Parmak’s coat dry, I leaned over and added my own - a thin, watery blue for accenting the alternating scales.

Parmak continued down Bashir’s neck before pausing to consider his chest.  Of course the scars there (and barely scars, as they had years from the best medical technology to help them heal) were familiar to Parmak, but he always looked to me, needing my advice on the best way to proceed.

Bashir noticed this time, so he coughed and smoothed his hands down from his chest to rest at his hipbones, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

“We are so blessed,” Parmak said, tipping more plaster onto his brush. “See, Elim, _our_ human is developing his own ridges already.”

“So he is,” I said, like the discovery was new to me.

Bashir smiled and shut his eyes, and tried his best not to shiver when Parmak’s brush met the lines across his chest, reaffirming their pattern.

As we continued down his sides, I traded my blue brush for one like Parmak’s.  The need for cosmetic paint diminished as the areas became more likely to remain covered by clothing.  I made a final flourish on the wide scales Parmak drew on the sides of Bashir’s hips before retiring my brush.

“Now, we’ve learned to let that _dry_ ,” Parmak warned, when Bashir made another case for standing up.  

I offered him his coffee, so he would have something to occupy his attention while Parmak and I rushed to mark each other with the blue dye.  

“I feel very included,” he said lightly.  

Parmak shrugged and reached to kiss his hand, as it was one of few suitable areas free of plaster and paint.

“No rush, my dear Julian,” he said as he withdrew.

“The picnic is packed already,” I added.

Parmak and I liked to watch Bashir’s eyes light up, glowing and widening as he raised his brows as only a human could.  

With the paints acceptably dry, we stood and collected what we needed for the day.  Parmak insisted on carrying Bashir out of the room, through the doorway - something he’d read about, apparently - and Bashir obliged, stifling laughter.

Parmak set him down and took hold of his arm instead, and retrieved the cane he reserved for long walks in his other hand.  I carried our bag of food and water over my shoulder.

We left the house in a state of warm contentment that reverberated in my chest and made me feel like we had lived together, behind that very door, for years.

Parmak led us into the forest which faced the front door.  Throughout the expedition, he did not drop Bashir’s hand, and often pulled it up when he gestured to the plants he found appealing.  When we reached a suitable stopping point, flanked by old shade trees and a canopy of low vines, we unpacked our bag.  

“Finally,” remarked Bashir, even though he never asked where we were going or how long the trip might take.

He rushed to accept the meal Parmak plated for him.  I rewarded his patience with a glass of kanar thickened with _strawberry syrup_ which he claimed made it ‘infinitely more palatable.’  He supported this claim by finishing two glasses over the course of our lunch, while Parmak and I shared one.

It was not an irresponsible amount by any means, but it did remind Parmak and I of just how malleable humans are.  We nodded at each other, in silent agreement and amusement, while Bashir glanced back and forth between us.

He decided to lean my way, stroking the ridge on my chin with his thumb.

“What would've happened - hmm? - if I tried this on you ten years ago, Garak?”

“Well, for one, _Julian_ , I would’ve been more understanding of you addressing me by my last name."

He drew my face in closer, then spoke with his lips very near to mine, in his best approximation of my voice, which I thought rather ruined the mood he was working so hard on creating.  I was surprised he got the words out at all.

“Elim, _darling_.  You’ll have to let me make this up to you.”

His thumb traced lower down my throat, and his fingers spread over the ridge on my cheek.

“All in good time, my dear,” I said.

“And in moderation,” Parmak added. “We’ve about an hour, yet.”

“Until…?” Bashir led.  

Parmak and I looked at each other and settled on saying nothing.  Instead, we slid up next to each other, and gently pulled Bashir down so he was laying over our legs, staring up at the canopy of moss.

Quietly, he told us about the imagined constellations he could see, as the fading sunlight stretched through the leaves to reach his waiting hands.  As he continued, Parmak and I felt more confident in our plans for the evening.  

When Parmak stopped stroking his hair and I unlatched my hand from the scales at the base of his neck, he asked what we were doing next.  

We helped him up and offered him water before continuing our journey at Parmak’s discretion.  

It was dark when we stopped, alone on top of a mountain, with an unobstructed view of the sky.  Bashir rubbed beneath his eyes, but dropped his hand when he turned to see Parmak and I, standing to one side of him, taking in the beauty of the view.

“I didn’t realize it _glowed_ ,” he said, pointing at the blue spots on his ridges, then at ours.

“It’s a special occasion,” Parmak explained.  

“And such an ideal, warm evening,” I said.

Parmak knelt, set down his cane, and smoothed his hand in circles over the soft, overgrown ground.  Bashir understood immediately, and shrugged free of his tunic before laying flat on his back, welcoming Parmak and I to each burrow into one of his arms.  

We traced the blue patterns on each other’s bodies and talked quietly until Bashir was asleep.

⟡⟡⟡

When the sun crept over us, we slowly shifted, rose, and prepared for the walk home.  We arrived at the borrowed property with the sun low against our backs, still early in the morning.  It was the beginning of Parmak’s day.

Bashir immediately helped me to compose our breakfast, and presented Parmak with one of his preferred herbal teas while he waited for the rest of the meal to finish heating.

“Have you given any more thought to your day yet, Elim?” he asked me, nearing the bottom of his glass.

“Perhaps,” I said, but he knew my tone meant ‘no.’

Bashir slid the finished plate in front of him, and we all sat down quietly to our breakfast.  The blue around his eyes still seemed to glow when it caught reflections from his silverware.  He caught me staring and asked when it would need to be removed.

“It comes off with water,” Parmak said offhandedly.  

“Oh,” Bashir replied, glancing at me, “that’ll be perfect, then.”

I understood this as a request to begin our next activity.  I left to fill the bathtub and switch on the wall heating units.  

Before they came in to join me, I could hear Parmak and Bashir stopping in the bedroom, shifting in and out of clothing.  They arrived in thin, easily-negotiable satin robes, and offered one to me if I wanted it.  While I usually appreciated a chance to waste time on a dramatic appearance, the water was quickly cooling, and the wall heaters had not been used in a long time, so they struggled to close the gap.

“After,” I said, motioning to the tub.  

Bashir helped Parmak out of his robe and, guiding him with one arm, lowered him into the bath before joining him and staring expectantly at me.

“Yes, alright,” I said, mirroring his impatience and digging for the well-hidden closures of my shirt.

“You know,” Bashir began, after I joined them, “I used to say I preferred showers.”

“How solitary and unfortunate,” I replied.

“Not inherently solitary,” he said, like he thought he was supposed to be offended.  “And anyway, my skin hardly needs the moisture _yours_ does.”

“Ah,” I said.

Parmak made a content sighing sound, and slid lower against the wall so his chin dipped into the water.

“Come here, Julian,” Parmak offered the space in front of himself, and Bashir obliged, leaning against Parmak’s chest and letting Parmak tuck his head against his shoulder.

One by one, Parmak gently pried off Bashir’s plaster-scales and set them down in a pile on the ledge.  The ones on his face remained, as they had not yet come in contact with the water.  Parmak remarked that these were ‘quite striking’ and could stay on for as long as Bashir would like.  I agreed, expanding the appraisal to include ‘handsome’ and waiting for Bashir to blush.  By his own admission, he found Cardassians better able at detecting the subtle changes in his skin than other humans.  I found it to be high praise.

With this task complete, Parmak took hold of Bashir’s shoulders, squeezing them gently, rolling his palms over them until Bashir relented, sighing and setting his head down against Parmak’s chest.  

“This day’s meant to be for _you_ , Kelas,” Bashir offered. “At least let me trade you places.”

“No, no.  I enjoy it.”

“Human hands lack the articulation for a decent massage,” I explained.

Bashir held up his head for long enough to give me a half-disapproving glance, so I showed myself out of the tub and returned with a perfumed sachet we packed especially for this purpose.

I untied the bag, delicately reached inside, and dropped the rose petals into the water three at a time until the bag was empty.  At this point, I set it down and rejoined my partners, sliding in behind Parmak so he could also enjoy a ‘decent massage.’  I pulled his hair out of the way first, tying it up in a tight spiral.

Parmak shut his eyes and blissfully inhaled.

“Mmm, Elim,” he said, on the exhale, “what kind of roses would grow in our Unity Vase?”

“These are silk,” I tried to evade him, because I was certain the answer was ‘none.’  

Despite us all collecting our soil from functional gardens, the hostility of their new home - a mantlepiece on Cardassia - rather undid any of their offerings of nutrients.  I expected the vase to be barren forever.

“Yes, I thought so,” said Parmak.

We sat quietly, listening to the hum of the heaters and the occasional soft sighs Bashir made as Parmak continued kneading down his back.  My hands splashed against the surface of the water each time Parmak leaned forward.

“This has been very pleasant,” Parmak eventually decided.  

Bashir turned to glance back at me; it was time to move on.

He stood first and tried to help Parmak up, but slipped and did not try again until he was out of the tub and wrapped in a towel.  Then he exchanged the towel for his robe, and insisted he would give a better massage through the towel, anyway, as he pressed it over Parmak’s back and smiled.  When all of us were out of the water and Bashir decided his job was finished, he threw Parmak’s robe to me and wrapped the towel around Parmak instead.

“Outside next, isn’t it, Elim?” Bashir asked, still playing my name like a new instrument.

I made an affirmative sound and shepherded them toward the door; Parmak turned over his shoulder to smile at me while I tied his robe around myself.

I heard the door to the balcony opening, and rushed to gather my materials so I could join them outside.  

Parmak was carefully following Bashir’s instructions, laying down on the lounge and then holding still, waiting, allowing Bashir to roll down the towel.

I checked the settings on my handheld regenerator a final time before kneeling beside the lounge.  This unit had been recalibrated from graphing skin to, essentially, replicating fabric, as thick as I cared to program it.  But I had no desire to test its limits; I set the gauge to weave something thin, hopefully like lace.  

“We’ve combined our talents for this one,” Bashir explained, when Parmak asked about the noise of the machine.  

“And the sun is cooperating today,” Parmak said pleasantly, trying to work out the details with his face pressed into a pillow.

I had a rough idea of the design in mind, but had yet to practice with the regenerator.  Fortunately, Parmak was patient, and welcomed me to trim away mistakes with my teeth and attempt them again.  Eventually, I completed half of a flowing and well-fitted gown which I hoped Parmak would enjoy wearing to bed.  

“I will need you to turn over, my dear,” I said.

Parmak asked if Bashir was blushing, before turning over to see for himself.  

“We are _married_ , after all,” but Bashir’s playful argument did little to diminish the flush in his cheeks.

Bashir slid into place against the backrest, holding Parmak up so I could continue my work.  As Bashir played with Parmak’s hair, undoing the careful arrangement I created earlier, I drew a thin line of lace down his chest.

“Oh that’s a _beautiful_ color, Elim,” Parmak praised, watching me.  

Bashir looked at me, trusting Parmak’s tone but not the words.  The color was like cream, not special or beautiful by any Federation standard I was aware of.  

“I hoped you’d enjoy it,” I replied.

“Oh, I do.  Deeply.”

I paused to bring them each a glass of wine, then continued my work quietly while they chatted.  It was reward enough, just listening and gently fusing the lace.

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak slept between us that night, and I awoke to the dangling lace rosettes from his collar brushing over my neck when he leaned in to provide my customary kiss.

“The day is yours, Elim,” he said quietly.  “What would you like to do?”

“I haven’t given it any thought until this very moment, Kelas,” I hummed.  

I rolled over and held his face gently in one hand.  I could see Bashir had left us already, and assumed he was working ardently on one of his backup plans.  Whatever he came up with would suit me just fine; I remained happy with my partners’ interpretations of my needs, as I struggled to express them eloquently or often enough.

“Kelas?” Bashir’s voice echoed into the room.  Then - more quietly - he added, “Elim?”

I spoke for both of us.

“Yes, my dear?  What is it?”

Bashir stood in the doorway, tossing one hand in confused resignation as he spoke.

“I, er, I set up a meal like we used to have, so Kelas can be part of one.”

“So very thoughtful,” Parmak praised.  “Just as Elim first described you, Julian - _thoughtful_.  Isn’t that right?”

I agreed, then we stood and went to join Bashir for the meal he made us.  The original intent was to cushion each course with literary discussion, but this, somehow, became a continuing series of personal reassurances, which I needed perhaps more desperately.  Hearing a list of the traits my partners valued in me - even after I disagreed with most of them - reminded me to make my merits more constant and visible.  Parmak nodded sweetly when it was his turn, clearly more aware of his best qualities than I was of mine, and Bashir seemed relieved to learn we saw him as more than his accomplishments.  

They completed the conversational circle - preparing to talk about me again - when I cleared my throat, scratched uncomfortably beneath my collar, and nodded my head toward the hearth.  We moved into the adjoining room, where Bashir made quick work of programming the artificial fireplace, and Parmak - essentially - made quick work of programming me.  He leaned against the armrest of the lounge - some luxurious foreign velvet that could only be found in a government-issued household - and invited me to sit in his lap.

At once, he began stroking my hair and speaking softly into my ear, continuing his collection of my personal affirmations.  Bashir took the remaining seat and waited, as he usually did, to find the way to make himself most useful.  

Without moving my head, I forced my gaze in his direction, trying to look at him suggestively through the clouds.

“Yes,” he said, and his hands were on me but he did not know what to do with them.

He could have as much time as he wanted to consider his next move.  This was the delightful new level our intimacy had finally reached - the chance to be leisurely and attentive, deeply connecting to each other with every interaction.

At first, we had been slow and exploratory.  We paused often to field questions and ensure comfort, and stopped altogether several times to preserve the latter.  

Passing this stage made us overexcited.  The progressive attempts were rushed, with each of us trying to prove our progress, to excel in our studies.

Now, though. _Now_.

“...All the time you need, my dear,” I soothed.  Bashir widened his eyes at me and tried to move in closer.

Parmak reached to tuck one of his hand’s into Bashir’s hair, so he could provide the same patterns and sensations to both of us at once.  Bashir, meanwhile, wrapped his arms tightly around my chest, and tilted his head down to grace my shoulder scales with his lips.  He knew which areas responded best to varying degrees of pressure, and knew to bite down even before I asked him to.  Not that I was able, with Parmak guiding both of us forward, kissing each of us tenderly in turn.  I enjoyed the texture of the lace he wore as much as I enjoyed stroking the skin underneath.

It was no longer a chore, preparing each other; it was enjoyable, and intimate in itself.

So this time, when we eventually relocated to the bedroom, it was after we had taken all the time we needed to understand each other.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to my friend Jay for suggesting so many wonderful pieces of this honeymoon chapter :)


	17. Reversals

Sona waited until late on the evening of our return to stop by with the children.  She was determined to work that extra day out of us, somehow.  Bashir was cleaning off the last of his scales when she arrived. 

“How was it?” she asked, the moment Bashir opened the door to her. “Too short?”

“Q-Quite nice,” Bashir assured her, settling on a language partway through.  It was fascinating, the dialect our little group was developing together.

Pazia stood as tall as she could to hug him, while Cidel waited for him to inevitably kneel.  

“How was _your_ weekend?” he asked, glancing between the three of them.  “You were good for Nurse Sona, weren’t you?”

“I’m never hosting meditation with anyone else,” she praised, “no offense, Kelas.”

Parmak shrugged, looking largely unaffected, while Bashir asked specifically about Cidel’s health.

“The ethosuximide made him dizzy, but he never had problems hearing me, and no seizures either.”

Bashir nodded.

“That’s three weeks, now, without one,” he said, proud of his patient but still frustrated with himself. “But we’ll have to try a different series for the side effects… thank you, Kyrene.”

“Sure, Julian.”

Parmak invited her to stay for dinner, which she accepted along with a promise of further discussion.  Bashir tried to laugh and ran his hand through his hair before joining Parmak beside the replicator.  Sona sighed at this and offered to bring back some Bajoran pasta she recently ordered from the surface; Cidel volunteered to help her bring this and some other foods from her home.  

Throughout this, I remained at the dining table reading from my PADD.  I missed dozens of communiques during the weekend away, and was working out which deserved replies.  Many - sent from people who knew I was away - were unwarranted accounts of petty non-emergencies.  These would be ignored indefinitely.  

Pazia set a mug in front of me for tea - one she had repainted several times - and Bashir passed by with the teapot to fill it.  I would wait for Cidel to return to sweeten it for me - he kept our entire stash of saccharine cubes in his pockets, on Bashir’s insistence they weren’t good for him and Parmak’s that they made his anticonvulsants less bitter, less likely to be spat out.

I hardly noticed that I was holding my hand to my chest, anymore, and relied on Bashir to point this out to me.

“Something wrong?” he asked.  

“I’m fine, thank you,” I gestured to the screen instead.  “It’s a message from Pythas.”

He slid into the seat beside me and read along as I directed him.

“What’s that symbol on the side - _translated_ by?  Why would--?”

“ _Prepared_ by, in this context,” I traced one finger over the screen, enlarging the letters as needed, “Dejar sent the message for him - these are her initials.”

Bashir remained unsatisfied with my explanation.

“Does that mean he’s hurt, if he can’t set up the communication himself?  Why not just dictate to the computer?”

“I doubt he is in a critical state,” I said calmly.  “It’s much more likely he said three or four words and felt impolite demanding a specific date.   So Dejar would’ve expanded it, suggested the date, here, then included her name to remind me Pythas is safe in her care.”

“Oh, of course,” Bashir said when he understood.  “Wait, it says something about Bajor…?”

He leaned in and read the offending paragraph to himself without my assistance.

“‘See you soon, not like last time,’” Bashir read, circling the header for Bajor with his fingernail.

“That’s the part troubling me, Julian,” I explained.  “I’m not certain of his meaning at all.”

I remained preoccupied with Pythas’s message throughout dinner, regarding it as a code that I needed to decipher.

“We were never on Bajor together,” I decided later in the night, with my partners crowded on either side, both reaching into the sink that I had left running.  “So what does he mean, ‘last time?’”

Bashir turned off his razor and set it down.  Parmak’s hands remained in his hair, halfway through washing it and tying it back for the night.

“Pythas and I,” I clarified.  “I thought we were, Julian, I _told you_ we were, but it can’t be true.”

“Now why would you have told me _anything_ that wasn’t true?” Bashir teased.  When I did not respond to this, he softened his voice and tried again, “I don’t remember you telling me anything about Pythas until all those letters.  That’s the first time I saw his name, much less heard you say it.”

“Hmm,” my voice shook, and Parmak looked me over, trying to decide on a way to help.

“Was this, perhaps, during the time your implant was on?” Parmak asked.

Bashir helped me match the recollection of a story to the moments immediately after he switched my implant _off_ , when I attacked him both verbally and physically.  Apparently I had not used Pythas’s name at the time; Bashir was adamant about this fact.

“You kept saying ‘Elim,’” he insisted.  “You said you deserved your punishment after the way you betrayed _Elim_.”

I recalled this, but only backed with the intention of getting personalized forgiveness from Bashir.  Something was still missing.

“I… I _must have_ meant Pythas,” I said, unimpressed with my past self.

“It’s very possible your memory was affected,” Bashir explained.  “Long-term by the scarring, and short-term by the withdrawal.  The concentration of endorphins also could’ve contributed a t…”

I set my hands on the counter, possessed by thoughts of the withdrawal from Bajor, unable to listen to anything else.

⟡⟡⟡

Together, Proconsul Lang and I made great progress on the educational reform.  After rotating through several temporary teachers, she took over the classes at the orphanage in addition to her congressional responsibilities, even absorbing the classes from smaller districts who received less attention.  The children always spoke highly of her temperament and her policies.

“Professor Lang is integrating the boys and girls classes permanently,” Pazia informed me after class one day.  As far as I knew, Bashir and Ghemor had also led integrated classes, but it was the promise of permanence that forced Pazia to consider it seriously.  Before, it was attributed to a lack of resources, but now it was becoming part of a standard - and high-quality - education.

We sat together in the study, where she read a list of required texts to me and I replied with whether or not we owned them.  I leaned over her list and made an affirmative mark next to a compilation of Bajoran poems. _Thank you, Julian._

“Good,” I said.  “We can wash the starch out of your hair tonight, if you like.  Do you want to grow it longer?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” she said, but I knew she mentioned Uncle Kelas’s hair frequently, with a sort of reverence I assigned to envy.

“Is there a different name you would like to use at school?”

“No,” this time she spoke confidently.  “When I use the feminine _Z_ , some of the class is still confused.”

“Perception is very important,” I said, “and best when it’s inconsistent.”

I made a final survey of the library index, confirming the marks we’d made on Pazia’s list, smiling at the place I’d written ‘Julian.’

“There was a boy I went to school with,” I told her, mentally stumbling over which details to include, “ _Pythas._  He taught me, by example, everything I know about perception.”

“Is he the one you’re bringing home?”

“Soon, yes.  I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to meet you, however you introduce yourself.”

⟡⟡⟡

The most I could determine from Pythas’s message was that he was afraid of being left behind.  I assumed he could clarify the details once I gave him all he deserved of my attention.  We had not been together on Bajor; he did not want to repeat past circumstances.  Surely I owed him that.

I traced the message’s origin to a private computer terminal at the clinic in Cardassia City.  After a long-owed favor from Doctor Jessel, Parmak was able to provide me with the details of Pythas’s guestroom, condition, and security.  Based on this information, I replied to Dejar and set up a day of visitation; we would wait to move him out of the clinic until after completing the surgery.  There was no need to place that much stress on him beforehand.

Bashir accompanied me on the transport route and walked beside me as we entered the City.  

At one point, I wanted to drop his hand, but I did not want him to worry that anything was wrong.  We continued to the Clinic and found Pythas’s room without difficulty.

He apologized at once for the darkness of his room, explaining he could hardly tolerate light beyond the computer’s glow anymore.  Bashir, just as quickly, stood over him, tricorder whirring while he tried exchanging pleasantries in the modern and direct dialect Pythas used.  I turned over my shoulder to offer interpretation, between inventorying the devices left in the room.  I hadn’t seen a traditional set of scalpels in years, and made a mental note to upgrade the clinics as soon as I was through with the schools.

Bashir cleared his throat before providing his diagnosis.  The surgery would have complications - some of the regrown scar tissue that obstructed Pythas’s vision was more than ten years old, based on the tricorder’s estimate, and would need to be removed first.  Pythas shrugged and did not elaborate.

“Ten _years_?” I asked.  

“Longer than that, Elim.  When was the withdrawal, 2369?”

“Yes,” Bashir said before I could.  He always liked a chance to practice the language.

I moved to stand beside his stretcher, setting my hands nervously on the railing.  Pythas watched as I did this.

“When you said ‘last time’ in your letter, is that what you were referring to?”

He shook his head, but his eyes said he was amused.

“I’m sorry, Elim.  Nal wanted it to sound more ominous so you’d actually come.”

“I would’ve come if you sent a book of recipes for taspar eggs, Pythas.”

“I know that; I’ve always trusted you,” Pythas assured me.  “That was all Nal.”

Bashir coughed again and stepped back, giving us more space and privacy.  I heard him turning over the metal tools as I had done.  During this, Pythas worked to gather his words. 

“I only meant I feared exploiting your name as you did mine.  I did get your message, by the way.  It was shouted to me from the gul at the front of the line; I was chained behind about thirty Bajorans.”

I released my shaky hold on the railing, weakened by another reminder that my personal suffering was only the center of a web.  One I continually tugged at until the whole thing collapsed in on me.  I wished it would just suffocate me, sometimes.  

“No, Elim, don’t take it that way,” he insisted, softening his gaze.  “I was on my way there already.  Your call only got me a faster ship.”

 _We’ll have plenty to talk about_ , I tried to say with a hesitant smile and my eyes cast to the floor.

With my attention on the tile, I became aware of the vibrations of someone moving, likely shutting a door.  Bashir remained at the surgical station, amused by the running-water-sink, but the noise it made was different.  And Pythas had not shifted enough to reroute the wheels on his bed.  I took hold of the bars again and called Bashir over.

“Take him home,” I said, in Federation-standard.  Pythas would have understood the urgency in my face, regardless, but I did not want to worry him.  I tried maintaining the gentle smile for as long as I could.

“Right…” Bashir returned, clearly unsure of my angle but willing to comply.

He scoured the room for the computer and collected the transporter armbands from the lockbox beside it.  He held up one and sighed at me in frustration; the box was empty already.

“Take my communicator, get a signal to Kelas,” I instructed. 

Bashir took the device from my case, tapped it, and called for Parmak.  

This time, I definitely heard a door opening.  Bashir did too, and looked to me before giving the confirmation Parmak needed to transport him and Pythas home.  

Unconvincingly, I told him not to worry about me.  He tried to give a quick explanation to Pythas, tightening the band around his arm and shielding his sensitive eyes with one hand as he dematerialized.

 _“--somewhere clear,”_ Parmak’s voice rattled through the communicator.  

Bashir rushed outside to find somewhere free of interfering signals.  

I was sure I heard the door to the next room opening, then the heavier main exit doors.  Twice.  

I collected a metal scalpel in one hand and tucked it into my sleeve, wondering if I would benefit more from my dormant paranoia or my desperate return to practice.  It was time to find out.

 _“What have you done with that traitor Lok?_ ”

_“Kelas!”_

In agony, I stood behind the exit door, staring through the grate-covered glass.  Bashir was being pursued by a looming, armored figure, undeniably Gul Madred.  But would the gul hear me if I opened the door?  Bashir was not carrying a weapon, and there was little chance of me subduing Madred once he saw me.

I decided to open the door just after Bashir decided to turn and face Madred, standing still.  Being stationary would make it _easier_ \- both for Parmak to collect him with our outdated transporter unit and for Madred to attack him.  I sprinted forward, determined to lessen the chances of the latter.

Bashir must have noticed me.  Wisely, he did not do anything to indicate this beyond swapping his calls to Parmak for claims he hadn’t seen Pythas.

“That liar Garak, then,” Madred offered.  “Where’s Garak, our useless Castellan?”

I wanted to indulge in this irony, but I was still several paces out of reach.  I did, however, ready the scalpel in my hand.  Each unifying step reminded me that Madred was taller, and that the width of his shoulders was based on more muscle than I’d ever possessed.  I revised my odds; there was _no_ chance of success if he saw me.

At this point, with Madred at an equal distance between us, Bashir disappeared into the transporter beam.  I was thankful to see him go, even though it left nothing to distract Madred.  I quickened my pace, steadied my grip on the blade, and drove it toward the clearest target I could reach.  

I chose the gap in his armor above his hip, as I could not reach any vulnerable point on his neck without first forcing him to hunch down.  My knife struggled through the thick scales (the reason this area was not armored to begin with) but I eventually felt the snapping release of his skin beneath the blade.

He stooped only for a moment; he knew it was more important to turn and face me than to evaluate his injury.  His hands made no motion toward the bleeding spot on his back.  Instead, they remained poised at his sides, ready to grab me as he turned.

“Garak!” he began to say, until I leaned close against him, drawing myself up enough to force my free hand over his mouth.  I could not let him turn around.  

I twisted the scalpel as I removed it.  Then I pressed it gently against the scales on his neck, ready to carve them off until I could reach his arteries without resistance.

Threats were only sufficiently answered with death, one way or the other.  He had threatened my friend and my husband already, so there was very little left to restrain me.

But could I kill him?  What would that accomplish?  Years ago, I would’ve been satisfied with my mind’s trained response of ‘yes’ and ‘nothing’ and then efficiently completed my assignment.  Now, though, I accepted both the threat and the possibility as meaningless.  The act would keep me in a prison, out of reach of personal improvement forever.  Had I really learned so little?

I refused to do to Jil Orra what I had done to Kel.   _Progress_.

I pressed my hand tighter over his mouth.  He dug into my wrist with his nails, drawing blood and bending bone.

“I can take you to a doctor,” I said to him.  

This clinic was closed, but I was willing to explain the circumstances to Parmak instead, if it would end this ordeal.  I was even competent enough to stop the bleeding on my own, but I also knew he would refuse to remain vulnerable at my hand.  The old custom would have labeled this as ‘committed’ or ‘heroic’ but, as I was designing the new system, I felt free to call it ‘incomprehensibly foolish’ instead.

“Please, Garak,” he sounded like he was accepting my offer, until he spit into my hand and laughed because I refused to remove it.  “Like I want to be touched by anyone who associates with _you_.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

I wedged the blade between two scales, knowing the change in circulation would cause him to lose consciousness more quickly.  I was likely to lose my patience, otherwise, and all the progress I’d made would vanish with it.

Keeping him from collapsing to the ground required all of my strength.  I slid the scalpel back into my sleeve and hooked my arms through his.  He crashed against my chest when I took a step backward, making it difficult for me to catch my breath.  With a labored sigh, I steadied him and dragged him back into the building.

The wound on his neck throbbed against my shoulder until I could feel the blood trickling through what I would have otherwise thought to be a thick and practical coat.  I sighed again, pressed my back against the door to Pythas’s former room, and dropped Madred as soon as we were both inside.  He slid, armor scraping against the wall, and fell in a pathetic, slumping heap on the floor.

I reassured myself that this _was_ an indicator of forward progress, as awful as the sight was.  I held my hand, the one he’d spit on and sliced open and bent backward, under the running water of the surgical sink.  As the sensor switched off, I twisted my wrist in circles, gauging the pain and trying not to voice any of it.

At this point, I heard the door opening again, then closing. 

Nal Dejar stood in the threshold, between Madred’s body and mine.  She looked as confused and disappointed as I felt.


	18. Connections

Dejar was prompt and forward in providing her opinion.  She ‘made sure Madred was aware’ I would be present at the clinic, and assumed the altercation would end along with his life.  Apparently he had made a series of threats to Pythas, all of which would have led to me eventually.  Dejar insisted the danger applied to both of us, but was beyond her control. 

“He only saw me as Pythas’s carer,” Dejar said, in conclusion, “so I would have been available to take the blame.”

With my arms under Madred’s, I tried to lift him and move him to the stretcher, but my wrist would not cooperate.

“It isn’t - help me, will you? - it isn’t about blame.”

“I could still do it.”

Together, we were able to heave him onto the bed.  Dejar held her hands at her sides, watching skeptically as I patted gauze into Madred’s wound and tried to restrain him comfortably beneath a blanket.  I returned the scalpel to its place on the table, determined to avoid Dejar’s gaze for as long as possible.

“I don’t want it done at all,” I told her.

“He’s going to go around saying the Castellan stabbed him.”

“He’s been known to lie about less.”

Her face remained set like stone, and just as cold.

“I’m not worried about him, Dejar.  I would say I care as much for Pythas as you do, and I assure you, Madred will make no further threats to him.”

I could not confirm the details of _how_ , but I would develop them as soon as Pythas needed them, I was confident of that.  

She flared her nostrils and gave a short, agitated breath.  

“What do you expect from me, Castellan?”

I wished she would’ve used my name instead.

“Forward anything Pythas needs to my home address.  I’m going to call the doctor; you’re dismissed.”

As she departed, I dabbed a cloth over the stain on my shoulder and dictated a message to the computer.  I left soon after this was complete - blood still tacky on my fingers - to ensure I would not run into Jessel on my way out.  I preferred not to explain myself twice, in case the details varied.  

Outside the main door to the clinic, I ran into a different female figure, wearing a hood and looking unhappy.

“What are you doing here, child?” the phrasing was safe, even though I could not discern her age.  In case she was older, I did not stoop to address her.

“I’m waiting for my father; I’m supposed to meet him at 1900 hours.”

“You are Jil Orra Madred?”

She nodded and recognized me as ‘ _Castellan Garak_ ’ with a touch of distaste she must have learned from her father.  I knew to only roll my eyes as I was closing them.  Of course he would bring her to this assignment, like every other; I hated to think he too was making progress, having instructed her to wait outside this time.

“Your father has been hurt, child.  He will be in the clinic overnight, at the very least.”

This did not seem to surprise her.  I did not understand the intricacies of their relationship - beyond what Parmak shared after her weekly appointments - but I was hardly qualified to question anyone’s loyalty to their father.

“I’m Doctor Parmak’s husband…” I said, hand to my chest.  “You can come and stay with us, if you would like.  Or in the clinic guestroom, it’s up to you.”

She remained quiet, unsure of the responsibility.  I reclaimed this and spoke quietly so she would not feel embarrassed.

“I will walk with you, whichever you choose.”

“Parmak,” she said, at last.  

I felt so proud and rightfully in love with him, hearing that his name alone promised to relieve pain.

⟡⟡⟡

That night gradually redefined ‘normal’ for our household.

I arrived home with Jil Orra, who went at once to sit with Parmak.  Bashir, meanwhile, panicked - needlessly and performatively - about the bloodstain on my shoulder.

“The blood isn’t mine,” I told him. 

“Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Then he announced my wrist was sprained without even touching it. 

“That was a foolish thing to do,” he said, pressing his thumb into the cartilage, “even if it was to protect me.”

“Mmm,” was the extent of my admission.  My actions were not solely for his benefit, but I adored his face, his mood, his aura when he was pretending. 

“I still love you, anyway.”

“Mmm,” I repeated, “a fact I am thankfully and constantly reminded of.”

 

He turned my hand over, fusing the joint with his regenerator, then gently squeezing to study his work, watching my fingers respond reflexively and listening for complaints.  I was able to keep from whining on the second repetition, so Bashir left me and requested two more plates from the replicator.

I sat down next to Pythas, shifting my _naan_ in circles around the perimeter of my plate instead of eating any.  We glanced at each other often, preserving the silence.  Bashir stood across from us and leaned over the table to check on Pythas, still apologizing for moving him without warning.  While looking at me, Pythas said he understood.

Parmak supervised the children during dinner; Pazia enthusiastically agreed to loan Jil Orra whatever clothing she needed for the duration of her stay.  Cidel took away their dishes and cleaned them.

I went to our bedroom without a word, hoping to at least appear to be asleep by the time anyone joined me.  Parmak came in as I was throwing back the covers.  He shut the door quietly.

“What happened?” he asked, in his genuine and tender way.  “Julian told me Gul Madred was there, Jil Orra said she never saw him, and _you_ were there somewhere in the middle.  I can make guesses if you’d rather not talk about it.”

I let go of the blanket and waited for Parmak to approach me, with my hands at my sides in surrender.  

He understood the gesture better than I did; he pressed one arm supportively against my back and, with his other hand, guided my head to rest on his shoulder.

“I didn’t kill him,” I said, unable to avoid sounding disappointed.

“No, I didn’t think so.”

“If he hurts _anyone_ in this house…” I trailed off and tried to restart, “I won’t be able to forgive myself.”

Parmak turned his head, not mine - even though he had more control over it than I did - and pressed his lips softly against the ridge at my jawline.

“ _I’ll_ forgive you, Elim.  We’re together to protect our family, don’t worry about that.”

I sighed unconvincingly into his hand as he moved it to turn my chin.

“Elim, look at me.  You made the right decision.”

I thought about arguing, since it seemed the best way to prolong my stay in Parmak’s attention.  But his arms remained over me even through the silence.  He stayed awake with me the entire night.

For the next week, we tried rearranging rooms and furniture to accommodate all of our guests comfortably, but we always ended up crowded around the dining table despite our best efforts.  Originally, Sona offered to take the children to her shack in the Asylum District, but their presence benefited Jil Orra endlessly, so Sona remained and assigned herself to Pythas’s care.  Parmak, meanwhile, focused on the communiques Doctor Jessel sent about Gul Madred, a notoriously difficult patient who had lost interest in everything but speaking to his daughter again.  

Parmak promised to refuse visitation for as long as Madred refused care; Jil Orra remained in our home for another week and began attending school with Pazia and Cidel.

This reduced the occupancy of our house dramatically for several precious hours each day.

“Are you feeling well enough to talk today?” I asked Pythas over lunch, on a day we were alone.

Bashir began work on reconstructing his facial tissue already, and was waiting for the skin to graph and heal before introducing the ocular implants.  Even through the patches of gauze, I could tell Bashir worked hard to preserve the gentility of Pythas’s features.  He would emerge handsomely aged, without a scar in sight; Bashir made all of his necessary fusing lines along the ridges, in order to disguise them better.  

“I’ve been known to go days without speaking,” Pythas said lightly.

“I’m not sure I should write your entry based only on our silent language,” I countered.

Pythas attempted a lighthearted smile.  I set my hand over his on the table, leaning my PADD down so it balanced on the ledge.

“I have injections I can give you for the pain,” I offered.  

“That’s alright, Elim,” he said, tipping his head briefly to one side. “I’m not in any pain.  Now, about the entry you’re writing…?”

“I’m collecting a history of every survivor in the sector,” I recited, as I had to all my past interviewees.

One corner of his mouth retained the smile while the other flickered downward.

“You want to talk to me about the withdrawal.”

“Desperately, yes.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” he said, uncomfortable with the possibility of using his voice any longer.  “I’d like to hear your side, also.  I’m afraid I missed some of it.”

I admired his tactics, even as their victim, and fell eagerly into the recollection.  It was a fair trade.

“I called for you before the withdrawal - I’d been waiting, saving up your name, hoping you could return me from my exile.  But Entek answered, and the next day my implant was _full_ of invented memories, and my home was full of Federation officers.  I wish I had more to tell you, but I could _swear_ we were on Bajor that night, together, you and I.”

“I thought that too, but on purpose.  To make things more pleasant,” he tapped the side of his head he’d inclined toward me earlier.  “Perhaps we _were_ together, in a way.”

I removed my hand from his, reaching for my PADD and scrolling through my files.

“ _Elim_ ,” he pleaded, catching the defeat in my expression, “I told you, I was on my way there already.  That was my punishment for hiding Palandine at--”

My finger drove into the screen, beyond my control 

“Hiding her?”

“That night,” he began, troubled, “I couldn’t stop _you_ , so I stopped her.  I took her to my home and tried to hide her as long as I could, but it’s impossible to stay invisible behind bruises like that.”

“It was the right thing to do,” I assured him.  

It occurred to me that Palandine would have been safer if we managed to smuggle her to the station; I had misused my connections for my own benefit.  I tried to stifle the self-hatred beneath bids of the new behaviors I was practicing.  

“It took me a lifetime to learn that,” Pythas conceded.

“And I dreamed so often of spending my life with the two of you...”

He tapped at the location of his implant again.  I hated to think of it further, so I stopped speaking.

“Well, they sent me to live in Lokar’s house on the surface; it was one of the first they took back, the Bajorans.”

“Naturally.”

“I’ve never been one for irony, but I did enjoy burying his body.”

I took a short breath and spoke too excitedly.

“I killed him.”

“I figured.”

We studied each other for a moment, struggling to discern the details through our deteriorating vision.  I offered a sigh to him instead, and returned my hand to his.  He turned his upward, brushing over my woven wedding band before curling his fingers atop mine.  

“I don’t know what happened to her either, Elim.  I’m very sorry.”

“You did all you could.  But why did it take you so long to tell me?”

I pulled my hand back, just barely, which Pythas understood as a polite request to downgrade his touches.  He slid his hand out from under mine and tapped his fingers restlessly on the table in my absence.  I worried that I had offended him, but the corners of his mouth both twitched into his tight yet genuine smile.

“Oh, Elim,” he said, like the fault was obvious and exclusively mine. “I always knew what _you_ were doing.  And then - I don’t know, a year later? - it stopped, so I assumed you’d been eliminated.”

“Ah,” I sighed, downplaying the depth of my understanding, “I thought the same of you on several occasions.”

I pulsed my fingers along the tabletop.  Once, twice.  I spoke my designation and waited for Pythas to continue.  

He replied to this, tapping down four fingernails simultaneously.  Once, twice.

“When I saw you again on the surface, I thought the connection would return.”

“Connection?” I said, as if I was just piecing things together. “My dear friend, when our _connection_ terminated, when you assumed I was dead, that was the time Doctor Bashir removed my wire.”

 _Removed it_? the sudden silence of his fingers demanded.

I took his hand back, only to squeeze it and say _yes_.

“When have I ever had any discipline?  I’m not like you, Pythas, I’m all extremes,” I tried to sound unaffected.  “I kept it on constantly and I broke it thinking of you.”

“Well, we’re the same now - aren’t we? - with nothing to look forward to but improvement.”

⟡⟡⟡

Two months later, the flowers in our unity vase were healthy enough for separation.  I settled on a specially modified strain of boronias, which thrived in the dry soil and multiplied when I moved them off of the mantle and into a sunny windowsill.  This was fortunate, as I found many uses for the new stems as they emerged.

Jil Orra collected them - tying them into an arrangement with other flowers from my garden - and brought them to her father’s room at the clinic.  Parmak took her there weekly, in place of their former counseling sessions.  Gul Madred signed himself out of the clinic as soon as he was able, and did not disclose his intended destination.  He still sent coded messages to Jil Orra, sometimes, but she expressed her desire to maintain the distance.  His hospital bed now served as a headstone for their connection; she left the flowers in the compartment on the door, where they brought joy to the patients who rotated through the room.

Palandine’s memorial remained unfinished, but also benefited from the flowers.  Pazia went with Parmak to Kel’s meetings, and often stayed late to practice making vases.  Their best combined creations were displayed in the corners of Palandine’s memorial, where they held stems of boronia and sticks of incense.

The flowers were small and bright, yet inconspicuous enough for Parmak to tuck into his hair.  Cidel copied him sometimes, when it was Bashir who wove them in.  He preferred Bashir’s attention to mine, and I couldn’t blame him.

He caught me working in my shed one night, cupping some of the pink blossoms in his hands.

“Julen’s still working on my medicine and--” he explained, but I welcomed him in before he finished with his excuse.  

“Yes, he needs to be sure everything is just right.”

“I know that,” Cidel beamed back at me.  “When it’s just right, I can answer your questions for your record collection.”

“I’m looking forward to that,” I tipped my head down toward his hands. “Do you need help with those, child?”

He acquiesced, knowing Bashir would be busy well into the night.  He sat down in front of me, passing the flowers back one at a time, laughing softly when I twisted their stems around strands of his hair; Bashir’s approach was different.

“I want to do something for Julen, too,” Cidel said after a moment.

“What’s that?”

His voice shook as he tried to gather the words.  Patiently, I put my hand on his shoulder and waited.

“Pazia said you could change her records again for school, change her name on them.”

“I can,” I said, withdrawing my hand.

“I want to have Julen’s name…”

“We--”

“ _B_ _ashir_ ,” he sounded like he had practiced the pronunciation all day.  

I remained quiet; this was the best way to encourage Cidel to continue.

“He wants to belong here and be a father, and I want to help him like he helps me.”

“That is very thoughtful of you,” I said, genuinely surprised by the depth of his gesture. “I will make the changes tomorrow morning at the Civic Center.”

I finished tucking away all of the flowers, pausing when Cidel rocked his head as he often did when he felt dizzy, and then escorted him back into the house.  He nodded respectfully to Palandine’s memorial as we passed it, proudly noting the matching flowers.

Upon entering the house, we could see Parmak and Bashir sitting close beside each other at the table.  Parmak had a scanner clipped to his ear, which beeped as it relayed information to Bashir’s PADD, sitting on the tabletop between them.  Bashir scrolled through it and made notes, with Parmak’s hand hovering over his as he wrote.

Cidel smiled at me and ran one sideways finger down from his lips to the emerging ridge at his chin.  The gesture indicated a secret.  Parmak saw and understood it, too, and watched as I returned it and pushed Cidel gently toward his usual chair.  Poorly, I tried to disguise my version of the motion by sitting down and setting my chin atop my folded hand.  

“What is it you’re doing?” I beat Parmak to the question.  

“Synthesizing Cardassian endolymph,” said Bashir, without looking up from his work.

Parmak adjusted the scanner he wore and said he would love the company; Bashir - beyond Parmak’s belief - did not offer any engaging conversation when he was focused on a problem.  

“Pythas is in bed,” Parmak warned, when Cidel offered to bring us back a game from the shelf in his borrowed bedroom.  

“Mmm,” I said, relaxed by the thought.  “A story, then, since we can’t endure the silence.”

Parmak nodded at me, then at Cidel.  Pazia crept in from the common room, holding capsules of ink and a rejected porcelain plate from her lessons.  

“Tell,” she said to me.

She scooted into the seat next to her brother and distributed the ink colors evenly between them, planning to illustrate as I spoke.  This, more than anything, reminded me to consider the weight of my words.  

I was sure I grew up valuing the words of my elders, but I lacked a practice to preserve them.  Now, when I shared a true history or an invented story, Pazia and Cidel would have proof of it to show me.  It is true that art is open to interpretation - something Bashir and I debated in depth often - but it also presents facts that cannot be easily overlooked.  

Misinterpreted, yes, but not ignored.

I felt fleetingly guilty for telling the story of how Parmak and I met (for the second time; I refused to share the first.)  I wanted to watch Pazia smile as she scribbled, while Cidel nodded thoughtfully and watched his sister work.  It was his way of making sure he heard the details correctly, just as it was my way of making sure I shared them correctly.  Parmak nodded often to encourage me, and ended the evening with his hands smudged with every color of available ink.  

Bashir giggled and failed at sounding serious when Parmak leaned over to touch his neck.  He finished his work, put away the scanner, led the children to their bedroom, and then joined us in ours.

“Kelas!” he exclaimed, “your hands are _freezing_.”

I held up our shared blanket and invited him to join me underneath it, but made no promises to not touch him myself.

“ _Elim,_ ” he said.  I had barely brushed his shoulder, opportunely catching him as he switched shirts.

Parmak looked across the bed at me while Bashir adjusted his collar and laid down.  

I tried to speak the silent language to him.  He had seen Pythas and I, maybe he had learned.  I trusted his observation skills as much as I trusted Bashir’s unwavering compassion.

I nodded forward and watched happily as Parmak returned the ‘secret’ gesture I made earlier.

He rolled to lay on his side, then slipped his ink-stained hand between the uppermost buttons on Bashir’s shirt.  Bashir made a similarly startled noise, which relented quickly to laughter.

“You think we would’ve _learnt our lesson_ ,” he said, gesturing vaguely over his chest.

Parmak’s hand slid lower until his wrist was caught by the second button.  I nodded again, then settled my hand between the second and third button.

“We’ve learned enough,” I praised, looking at Parmak. 


	19. Meetings

Pythas opted not to have his implant removed and Bashir offered little argument.  At this stage in Pythas’s life, Bashir said, it would be more traumatic to disconnect it then to work around it.  When he installed the ocular implants, he did a quick check of its systems and verified it was still in working order.  I had promised him it would be, and so had Pythas, each of us making a rueful mention of our former employer. 

On the final day of Pythas’s convalescence, Parmak - the blossoming psychologist - presented both of us with a parting gift, which he disguised as a puzzle to entice us.

We sat across from each other at the table as we often did, with Bashir hovering around Pythas and frequently leaning on his shoulder to study his eyes, bright blue and artificial.  Pythas recoiled at the warmth of his touch each time, and apologized twice as often.  

Parmak, in between Bashir’s ministrations, talked with us and offered a flat, rectangular piece of pottery.  It was clearly one of his earlier attempts, as the sides were marked with his _0_ version of a heart.  Beside this, he emptied out a bag of glass tiles of various colors, sizes, and shapes.  With a final flourish, he left us a brush and a vial of plaster.

“To finish rebuilding your collective memories,” he explained, although I could’ve guessed as much.  The colors reminded me immediately of my experience in mind-melding, and that did little more than reaffirm old memories and emotions.

Over the months Pythas spent with us, we worked through our recollective gaps while the rest of the household was away, with the exception of the time Sona insisted on watching Pythas for the whole of her day off, on which we spoke in a Bajoran dialect much older than she was.  The more delicate details were always conveyed silently, in a connection I finally knew ran deeper than our implants.  I had always been wary of it in the past; it was hesitantly intimate, mechanical, and then gone.

Immediately, my hand gravitated toward a triangular shard of green glass.   _Pythas, Bamarren._  I scooped plaster onto the back of it then pressed it firmly into the upper corner of the tray.  This was the start of our story.  

Pythas watched me and voiced his amusement - something he learned from his overeager human caretaker, who had a low tolerance for our silent subtext.

“We need to see how they’ll all fit together, first, before we cement them down.”

 _Fences_ , I said, with a quirk of my forehead ridge and a short huff of breath.  

Bashir took the seat beside him and Parmak eventually took the one beside me, having led the children to the door to meet Sona for meditation and then made us all a pot of tea.

Pythas arranged a cracked blue piece beside my green corner, turning it to study it from several possible angles.

“This one reminds me of Six.”

“Yes, I can understand why,” I said.  

He took the plaster from me and lined the tray, not the glass piece.  He was combining our approaches, waiting until it became tacky to set the ceremonial Six into place.

 _Fences_ , he said back, tilting his chin down to display his forehead to me.

Then he spoke for the benefit of our observers.

“There was a night Six came in - breathing worse than usual - and with someone else behind him.  I couldn’t tell which bed he went in, the follower.  You probably don’t remember…”

“Indeed,” I said, gently turning his blue piece so it was more parallel to my green one.

“Oh, I made a point to catch _everyone_ sneaking in after dark.  Three said he’d seen you once with One Ketay, and I liked to keep things even.”

“ _Palandine_?” Bashir mouthed.

“Of course you did,” I said, then turned to nod at Bashir.

Bashir nudged my teacup toward me, and Parmak took over the task of sweetening it with cubes he’d hidden from Cidel.  They seemed content to watch us.

“So when _Three_ came in late, I switched on the light above my bed and coughed, and he was quiet after that,” Pythas concluded.

“I don’t remember this either.”

 _How much did I miss_? I asked Pythas, by clicking my spoon against my teacup before stirring in the sugar.  

“You were asleep,” Pythas explained, with a smile. “Your scales were reforming; you were exhausted.  You came to my bed before curfew and just…”

 _...let me stroke you,_ his eyes finished the thought.  Then he reached for my hand and clawed lightly at my knuckles, _remember_ \- _you apologized for not everting even though I told you I didn’t mind._

“...fell asleep,” I rushed to tie up his abandoned sentence.

“You did.  Drooling into my chula and everything.”

As a more recent victim of this practice, Bashir offered a quiet laugh.  

“So you’ve always slept with your mouth open like that, Garak?” he asked.  We returned to our old forms of address to indicate a playful argument; we both missed them, enjoyed them, and found a way to indulge ourselves without apology.  

“I have, Doctor, yes.  I’m glad you find this amusing.”

“And tongue over his teeth,” Pythas said.

Parmak nodded knowingly at this, and struggled to recall whether or not he had explained the significance to Bashir.

 _For your--_ I began, glancing sideways at Pythas.

“For my scent, yes.  I know.”

“--to establish territory,” Parmak concluded, ignoring our interruption.  

Bashir nodded and slowly said ‘ah.’

Pythas continued sorting through the pieces, offering all the pink and grey ones he found to me.  I began organizing the colors into individual piles between us, which he praised with a smile, and by nudging his knee against mine beneath the table.  

“I didn’t have the heart to wake you until just before the morning signal,” Pythas continued. “Carried you to your bed and everything - thought Nine might kill me if he saw.”

“I’m sure I was grateful for your protection.”

“Well, you were easy on me in the Pit the following session.”

“How embarrassing.”

He continued smiling at me, and further divided my stacks so the tiles ran in gradients.  

“For you, perhaps.”

I clicked a pink piece - for Palandine - into place beside an especially shiny grey one I’d wishfully assigned to myself.  Pythas scraped the residual plaster away from their edges as I pressed them down near the center of the tray.  I noticed, now, that there were no purple tiles in the bag, and gave a grateful nod to Parmak.  

“That was the day Calyx sent you to the back of the formation,” I happily replied.  “I _do_ remember that.”

“I wonder what happened to him,” Bashir began.

Pythas gave a little huff like I did; he liked the way Bashir pronounced our names, and sighed after the missed opportunity.  I would win it back.

“Oh, I’m sure he lived to be 200 and only died to teach someone a lesson,” I explained.

I took a darker grey piece and dug its corner into the plaster so it stood tall over the others.  Pythas tilted it and laughed until I joined him.

“That’s for Calyx?” Bashir asked, amused.  

The victory was much easier than I expected.  I reached for Bashir’s hand and held it; even among humans, this could express gratitude.  Pythas was aware of this, too, and took Bashir’s other hand from its perch on the edge of the table.  Delicately, he entwined their fingers, and I marveled at Bashir’s ability to reply.

“Oh it’s, er, it’s alright - I would’ve done the same for anyone--  I mean, any _friend_.  It’s been nice getting to know you; I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the chance.”

“You’re a resilient man, Pythas, and excellent company,” Parmak observed.

Pythas leaned across the table to touch Parmak’s hand, just briefly, remarking at the tangle our arms made over the tray.  As he withdrew, he invited Parmak and Bashir to set pieces for themselves on the side opposing our school history.  We continued and met in the middle, where Pythas requested a blank circular space remain.

He traced this area with one finger.

“For the rest,” he said firmly.  “And Elim, if there is _anything_  I can do to help you or your family--”

“I will never again hesitate to call on you, Pythas, never.”

⟡⟡⟡

During my term as Castellan, I made a point to attend less Federation-sponsored events than outside ones.  Annoyingly at times, I found the Federation diplomats more engaging and more likely to understand me when I made introductions.  I often suspected the translation devices at off-world events were purchased secondhand from distant quadrants.  

On one occasion, we were presented with grey sashes at the door.  My offers to fasten these for my partners were met with some skepticism; they both apologized on my behalf and finished the preparation themselves.  Then, there was some debate over which color sash Bashir should be given, as one host opened a sliding glass case of other possible fabrics.  I clicked my tongue and watched, with Parmak recommending I remain quiet and gracious instead of - as he lovingly phrased it - insufferable.

“My spouses,” I explained to the host behind the counter, “Doctors Parmak and Bashir.”

The host inclined her head, like the beginning of an affirmative nod, but did not move it down again.  Bashir was provided a darker sash and no explanation.  We refrained from shrugging until we were clear of the host’s vision.  In the reception hall, we learned to match our seats and our provided meals and beverages to the colors we were given.

The host sat beside me, doing the same peculiar nod to her supervisor, who sat on my other side at the head of the table.  

Bashir, meanwhile, waved at me from his place at the opposite end of the room.  Parmak sat directly across from me and waited patiently to touch his plate.

“Are you ill, Castellan Garak?” the supervisor asked, translator butchering my title in a way I found enjoyable and fitting.

“I beg your pardon?”

Parmak watched me carefully, and I tried to speak based on his subtle reactions.  It was more common for Parmak, now, to stay quiet, but his grasp of the gestural language was less complete than Pythas’s.  At first, he struggled with the worry that his frequent speaking robbed something from our intimacy - even citing our first night together.  (‘That was what I needed then, and this is what you need now,’ I reassured him.)

The host turned to me, finally lowering her chin.

“Do you often bring your physician to trade brokerage agreements?”

Parmak raised his shoulders but did not lower them, like the host had done with her head.  It was as much of a shrug as I could hope for.  The question was mine.

“I ‘bring’ Doctor Parmak and Doctor Bashir with me on all of my assignments,” I replied.  This was not even true - on many occasions I attended meetings alone while my partners kept appointments at the Med Center - but I was troubled by the woman’s tone.

The supervisor leaned his head down and muttered something about needing new databases for his research.  

It was clear, then, that he and the rest of the delegation did not understand my use of both titles had applied to both men.  If I could not effectively manipulate their verbal language, our hopes of establishing a trade agreement would diminish greatly.  Of course, I could rely on learning their nonverbal language to complete the agreement, but I focused on redeeming my partners’ reputations instead.  Mine was not a concern anymore.  

I cleared my throat and continued, with the host staring above my eyeline and the supervisor regarding the vulnerable point in the center of my neck.

“I value their unique perspectives in my decision-making process.  Alone, I am indecisive.”

“I have read your file,” the supervisor began.  “Your name _alone_ supports the restructuring of transportation in your sector, the medical and educational reformation acts, the opening of free trade with other--”

I decided to move my chin down, slowly, until I could look directly at him.  

“No, your research is incorrect.  Meaningless.  I could list the names of hundreds of others involved, including Doctor Parmak and Doctor Bashir.”

Sweetly, Parmak grinned at us.  Bashir was watching from across the room, and assumed he should smile too.  

“That many?” asked the supervisor.  I disliked his tone.

“You cannot agree to the terms alone, then,” the host speculated.  She spoke less offensively, but also with less weight.

I was deeply irritated by their dismissal of my reliance on others, as if they didn’t understand that our entire _planet_ needed to work together to raise itself from the ashes.  And that outsiders like Bashir and Sona and the Federation - and anyone but delegates from this planet, to be quite honest - needed, then, to polish us off and reconstruct our fragile dignity.  It was not worth trading goods with anyone so inconsiderate of the circumstances; I would’ve understood our weakened state being abused in such agreements, but only because the offending party had a clear impression of how far we had fallen and how desperate we were for assistance.  These people had not even gone that far.

“No, of course not.  The only thing anyone can do alone is fail,” I insisted.  Then I returned my attention to the supervisor, “Why, you must be aware of _that_ , having arranged this conference alone.”

I was thankful to be stripped of my sash and dismissed from proceedings, making a point to hold hands with both Parmak and Bashir on the way out.  

It should not have mattered so much to me.  The goal of our enjoinment was to ensure we were correctly understood - and eventually routinely ignored - on Cardassia.  

“You like people to interpret you differently, though,” Parmak offered, once we were outside and on the way to our shuttle.

Bashir was reaching across himself to play with his bracelet, which he wore on the hand I was holding.  He was still quietly trying to piece together proceedings, as he missed much of our discussion from the distant side of the table.  

“I like people to interpret me _correctly_ ,” I said firmly.  

Parmak rearranged our fingers, so his were on top of mine.  

“It takes time, and it isn’t always worthwhile.”

At that moment, I knew I would not seek reelection at the end of my first term.  I would take the time I was awarded, and continue making my decisions to be as universally beneficial as possible, but that was enough.  It was not worth it to me anymore, to be misunderstood.  Not at the expense of those who relied on me.  

Parmak, my infallible supervisor, sought my eyes and smoothed this new crease in my conscience.

“You’ve made incredible progress, Elim,” he reached over me to touch Bashir’s arm. “We are nothing but proud of you.”

“Even when you do have to have the last word,” Bashir added.

⟡⟡⟡

Pythas and I continued meeting on a fairly consistent basis for years, with the meetings becoming more frequent as my career requirements lessened and changed.  Sometimes we spoke, but often we did not need to.  Our preferred meeting place - on days I could tolerate the walk unassisted - was the repurposed Palandine Institute for Youth Education.

It had been an orphanage and then a casual school, and now it held a renovated library full of my meticulously sorted records.  We liked to meet upstairs, where the original orphans congregated for their meals.  

As it turned out, I had used my favor from Pythas only several weeks after he returned home to Dejar’s care.  Pazia reminded me that the educational year would be ending shortly, and would be followed by the calendar year, which held my promise of closing down the district orphanage for good.  

But three children remained inside, older and continually ignored by prospective parents.  Pythas and Nal graciously agreed to take them, regardless of the habits that supposedly made them undesirable, and I had never seen such joy on any child’s face as I did that day.  The eldest spoke alongside me at the Closing Ceremony, and then alongside his father years later when the site reopened. 

I learned, too - mostly from the times we sat quietly together - that Pythas and Nal lived cooperatively in a different sense than Parmak and Bashir and I did.  Their love for each other was different and in no way diminished the support or education they provided to their children.  Once, Pythas admitted he still cared very deeply for me - that this was the only strong connection he’d managed to forge in all his life - but that he was thrilled to see me as happy and well-cared for as I deserved.  (“I could not have given you that,” he said sadly, and even though I agreed, I embraced him; I could not bear the thought of destroying our friendship.)

Now, Pythas sat close beside me in the reading area - a cushioned and circular recess in the center of the floor - with one hand on my knee and the other sliding gradually down the short staircase railing.  

“Kel’s finally started bringing the hatchling along to recitations,” I said.  

He tapped his fingers against the hem of my tunic, like laughter.  

“ _Hatchling_ ,” I replied, amused, “listen to me - she’s nearly nine and I’m going to keep calling her ‘hatchling.’”

“Ketay,” Pythas tried to be helpful, “and I’ve been absent from them almost longer than she has.”

“They’re not for everyone.”

Pythas drew his hands together and folded them.

He had attended several meetings before with me - and later with me and Parmak - but the chanting bothered him and the listening drained him.  His idea of spirituality was largely silent, and I could not fault his reasoning or his reaction.  He did, however, enjoy the masks and their offers of anonymity - something he’d lost between his growing family, improving reputation, and glowing eyes.  But the masks did little to hide the latter.

“And I’ve finally put up our mosaic on the pillar at home,” he said after a while.  

“I assume you’ve spent all this intermediary time filling the middle of it?”

 _No_ , he looked at the floor.  “It’s mounted from the middle, nail in the gap.”

“How optimistic of you, refusing to acknowledge the end of our fleeting time together.”

He laughed lightly and widened his eyes, which served to illuminate his face more clearly in the darkness.  The room was optimized for Cardassians reading from screens for long periods of time, after all.

I could see, then, the little twitch of his smile.

“Would you rather I start building my own gravesite?” he asked.

“Now, in these matters I find the only way I’m happy with the finished product is to build it myself.”

 _Only joking_ , his eyes said, and he shook his head to say _sorry._

“I’m not planning to _use_ it any time soon, my friend,” I assured.  “I want the flowers already mature around my coffin, and I’ll need at least another decade to perfect the design of it.”

“If Kelas lets you, I’d love to see it.”

“Oh, my dearest Kelas,” I said fondly. “He loves a good metaphor if it’s at the expense of anything but my health.”

 _And Julian?_ Pythas turned his head quickly to face me.

“...insists it’s at the expense of my health.  Doesn’t let me sit out in the cold _or_ in the sunshine.  But Cidel moves the pieces for me and tends the garden, and Pazia and Jil Orra bring new pieces - things that remind them of me - when they visit.”

“I can send Tahli with materials for mine,” Pythas said.  I found it beautiful that he had not successfully condensed the names of any of his children to gestures, yet, and that he spoke them in the slow and careful cadence Bashir always used when confronted with our letters.

I waved my hand dismissively, but ensured my gaze remained gentle.

“Oh, yours has been finished for years.  It was one of the first I made when I r--” I faltered, “when I... returned home.”

 _I don’t believe you_ , he said this by abruptly turning away and looking longingly at the staircase instead.

“Ask Kelas - I put a scarf in it for you and he took it to tie up his hair.”

“Hmm.  I thought he appreciated metaphors.”

“I’ve never met a Cardassian who wasn’t suffering some kind of self-contradiction.”

Pythas reached toward my hand but did not take hold of it.

“You say that like you aren’t one anymore.  Fascinating - isn’t it? - what the Federation is capable of.”

 _I’ve barely held the title a week_ , I reminded him, reaching for the nearest PADD of records, which a previous visitor apparently left behind in the lounge.  The goal of reading was to force Pythas to speak to me, but I also wouldn’t mind if he continued the feathery brushes against my hand, never committing to holding it.  

We remained this way until I was nearly finished with reading the record, rightfully pleased that it did not contain a single typographic error.  I was almost constantly rechecking them, until Bashir half-seriously threatened to make a device to trigger my ocular implants off.

I noticed a tall and slim figure in the doorway, tilting his head in a way I recognized long before his face came into focus.  He held a clearance card to the door and entered.

“Is it alright if I come in?  All I saw was your eyes glowing at each other; I didn’t think you were sleeping…”

“Cidel,” I said pleasantly, “what is it you need, another eidetic exam?”

Evasively, he bowed first, then exchanged greetings with Pythas.

“I wanted to tell you I’d made dinner,” he continued, “Uncle Kelas wasn’t up for walking here.”

By now, Parmak relied on his cane for all of his mobility.  He took advantage of the afternoons any of the children were home, when they insisted he rest while they ran his errands for him.  Cidel was the only one still permanently residing with us, and regarded his expanding caretaking duties with great respect.

“And?” I prompted.  His lips pursed in a particular way when he was deep in thought and struggling to connect to speech.

“And there was a record I wanted to borrow.”

Pythas turned expectantly to me, nudging me to continue the line of questioning.  How little things had changed.

“Child,” I savored the word because he was nearly an adult, “you can view whatever records you wish from the computer at home; I’ve left you my _private_ passcode several times.”

I emphasized this because he looked unsure of the security of reading the records at home.

“Oh,” he said.  “I wanted to study the cases Nurse Sona mentioned from her residency, but I didn’t wanna go bother her on her day off, and I didn’t want to explain to Julen yet either.  Not until it’s better.”

“I promise he will be exceptionally proud of you - even if you don’t improve at your exams.”

I stood, climbed the stairs, and met him.  I placed a hand softly on his shoulder, and together we watched Pythas as he followed.

“You can take all the time at it you need,” I reminded him.  “It will be just like when we changed your name - you didn’t show him _that_ until he had to clear your medical records for admission to the Institute.”

“I thought he’d be embarrassed.”

“He’s always embarrassed; it’s never your doing.”

Indeed, the discovery involved some crying from Bashir, in between asking if I’d made an error on the adoption form and embracing Cidel when he said I _never_ made mistakes.

“Soon, then,” Cidel decided, and Pythas looked inspired.

Pythas politely said farewell to us, and that he was looking forward to our next meeting as he always was.  On the walk home, sometimes stumbling and catching Cidel’s arm, I resolved to share the news with Bashir over dinner.  


	20. Achievements

In addition to requiring the cane, Parmak also benefited from Bashir’s attention at this particular time.  The less frequent and more painful shedding of scales was a natural part of our aging process, a part Bashir took more seriously than either of us did.

They were beside each other on the lounge when Cidel and I arrived home, with Bashir gently dabbing some solution over the reddened patches on Parmak’s neck.  Right away, Cidel asked what he could do to help, and was not satisfied until Bashir agreed to trade him places in favor of eating with me.  Sona taught him to be persistent.

I prepared plates of _honeyed polenta_ and regova egg for myself and Parmak (to ensure he would eat enough) while Bashir poured each of us a glass of wine.  Cidel and Parmak joined us when the application was complete.  I was cautious in leaning closer to take in Parmak’s scent; the cream he used on his neck was his own recipe - ground, oversteeped tea leaves mixed with _mint_ and _eucalyptus._

“I left you some,” Parmak replied to the gesture.  

Feeling ridiculous, I closed my mouth and backed away, then touched my own scales to assure him I did not need any.  Otherwise, I expected Parmak to rush and retrieve the solution immediately, regardless of his own requirements.

“We’re very grateful for your help, Child,” I said pointedly to Cidel.  “But please don’t feel pressured to remain here, just to look after us.”

He frowned, and I knew I’d selected the wrong strategy.  Thankfully, Bashir was both the intended target _and_ much better at communicating with the boy.  He always had been.

“You can stay with us as long as you’d like,” Bashir said gently.  

I expected the pressure tore at Cidel since his sister and Jil Orra left.  They lived together in a nearby district and visited often, and Cidel switched between craving similar independence and worrying the three of us needed company.  His intended career was an ideal blend of both, which I was proud of but could not properly articulate at the time.  I tried to help, but it is possible I did him very little good.   

“I’ve, um-” Cidel looked at me before continuing, “been going with Sona to appointments after class.  If I graduate this year from the Institute, I would like to study medicine.”

Instead of the traditional smile, Bashir’s mouth hung open while he thought.

“I’m sorry,” was what he came up with, “I don’t know what to say.  I mean, that’s wonderful, obviously, and of course you should and… and I - _we_ \- would support you all the way, if that’s your… what did you mean, _if_ you graduate this year?”

Cidel frowned inconsolably, which I knew Bashir would take as a challenge.

“My exam scores are too low to get into the Ilvian Academy on Bajor.  Sona can’t sponsor me unless I get at least one of them up.”

Bashir looked to me for clarification; Parmak was already nodding along quietly.

“His echoic memory scores are in the same percentile as a child Ketay Lokar’s age,” I explained.  “We’ve been working on improving his eidetic score instead.”  

“Of course,” Parmak interrupted, “the new curriculum does not base final scores solely on memorization techniques, as the old one did--”

“--but it’s the most standard method of comparison across two planets,” I concluded.  “Especially in medicine.”

Bashir paused again, repeating the chant of ‘I don’t know what to say’ followed by a deep breath and lots of words which proved otherwise.

“We’ll all support you if that’s what you want - I’ll definitely help you with your exams - but I don’t want you to think you can’t contribute anything meaningful if those numbers never go up.  It’s unfair to base your whole life on numbers, and they shouldn’t keep you from doing what you want, _especially_ when you’re already _so good at it_.  I mean, you could pass the certification for a nurse’s aide right this minute,” he paused. “I’m sorry.  That’s, er, that’s a Federation term, I know, but it’s a professional carer, a licensed one.  I could administer it and--”

I needed to lean across the table to kiss him.  I recognized, between the passion in his words and the sparks of confusion in his eyes before he closed them, that each one of us was making a similar personal journey toward lasting progress.

Parmak had always been more aware of his strengths and shortcomings than I ever was of mine.  Most of the time, when I listed faults I was suffering from, I did not listen to myself, so there was little hope of making corrections.  I generally listed my ailments in exchange for attention, which Parmak gave to me, even after he insisted nothing was wrong with me.  Nothing we could not work through together, anyway.  

Bashir struggled with self-doubt as I often did, but he worked hard to be friendly and encouraging and self-sufficient in its place.  He preferred concepts of ‘I can help you get better’ to ‘I can fix what’s wrong with you’ despite having the resources, as a physician, to do either.  Of course I understood his reasoning, but I felt pride in the progress he’d made nonetheless.

How fortunate that the three of us had found our way together, twisting our fatelines and tying them up at each end.  I learned not to give up on myself or my progress, because my partners would not let me.  

Bashir offered to restart, hoping he could clarify his point to Cidel, who sat blinking slowly.  But this did not turn out to be necessary - it also helped me recognize a flaw in my exams, where the voice was neutral and listed words that, beyond the duration of the test, were not interesting or useful to the listener.  Cidel understood perfectly.

“I would like to be licensed,” he said, even mixing the necessary languages.

It was Parmak who volunteered to make the arrangements, leaving us the time and space we needed to finish our discussion.  He unhooked his cane from the back of his chair and left to work on a formal request for the Med Center.

“And you may make a good nurse someday,” Bashir said, “but _right now_ , you will make a great carer.”

⟡⟡⟡

“You will keep your designation, won’t you?” I asked.

Palandine nodded, said she ‘apparently hadn’t broken enough rules’, and continued looking dismayed.  

“You must be proud on both counts,” I said.

“I can’t believe they haven’t told you where you’ve been reassigned to,” Palandine redirected the conversation, “That’s very unusual; I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

She held my shoulder but we did not face each other.  I did not have the strength for it.  Both of us stared forward, into the dense forest.  I was tempted, after each twitch of the branches, to rush into it and never return.  The only thing holding me back was Palandine’s reassuring grip, but I expected to talk her into joining me, should my wretched fantasy become a necessary risk.  

I shook my head and took in an equally unsteady breath.  

“No,” I clarified my answer and banished my fantasies simultaneously.

“Very unusual,” she said again.  “Have you told anyone else?”

I had told Pythas, earlier that evening, when he shared his name with me and I felt very tempted, as I usually did, to kiss him even if others could see us.

“No,” I repeated with stolen conviction. “There are several things I must do before I go.”

“Naturally.  There’s too much time, until it runs out.”

All I needed to do was return Mila to his home.  Like him, I would not be bringing anything from my room back to my own home, so I needed to waste no time on packing.  Or on saying goodbye.

Well, that was not entirely true.  Palandine knew this; it was the reason she agreed to meet me.

“Elim Garak,” she said, and I felt the need to turn and look at her, “If you really meant it - or anything at all - you would’ve said so by now.”

Meant _what_ , exactly?  That I loved her and wanted to spend my life, or at least the next three years of it, getting to know her better?  That I wanted to crush Barkan’s hand the next time he set it on either one of us?  That I wished I understood my life at least half as well as my contraband regnar understood his?

“ _Goodbye_ ,” she emphasized, to the hopeless way my jaw hung open, “you don’t mean what you can’t say.”

It took me a lifetime of lies to unlearn this, and I assigned each victory to Palandine’s guidance.

At this time, though, I slid over so I was out of her reach.  I heard her folding her hands in her lap, sighing defeatedly as she did so.

“If there’s anything else I can teach you, Elim, let it be this: you can’t believe the bad things will last forever.  Like this place?  You didn’t like it, and now it’s over for you.  The good things, the things you don’t need to be _forced_ to love, last much longer.”

⟡⟡⟡

Parmak and Bashir discussed all of our approaching anniversaries in great detail, with Parmak politely pointing out the cultural inconsistencies and Bashir replying with varying degrees of impatience and surprise.  

“What about ten?” Bashir asked once. “You really wait _fourteen years_ to celebrate your commitment?”

“I don’t know how the practice began,” Parmak admitted, “but, in a way, it ensured the connection remained intact until the celebration.  In general, I feel we prefer to wait and anticipate our rewards, as we get distracted without a goal to work for, even if it turns out to be hypothetical.”

“And you really believe in all that?” Bashir confirmed, nudging his arm. “You’d rather not celebrate now?”

It was the eve of our tenth wedding anniversary, and Parmak declined to answer.  Bashir sighed and resolved to take us on a trip somewhere.

“When these’ve healed,” I said, gesturing over my neck. “That way, you can take some time to plan it out.”

I didn’t like to discourage Bashir’s occasional bouts of spontaneity, but it was admittedly the most difficult human characteristic for Parmak and I to adjust to.

“Why, I would need at least that long to plan your gift,” I continued.  

“Four years, perhaps,” added Parmak, touching my neck with almost impossible gentility.   

Bashir indulged us, and we did not make a trip that year.  Instead we waited and planned and - as Parmak labeled it - ‘studied our connection.’  The studies consisted of more casual kisses over meals, more nights spent in the garden studying the stars above us, and more leisure time built into our offworld meetings.  Most times, when Parmak or I took his hand while he was working, Bashir would gradually blush and admit he could tolerate four more years of being a student.

As promised, I spent them working on a gift.  

By this time, I worked as an Ambassador to the Federation and provided occasional consultation to our congress.  Bashir and Parmak still saw patients, with Bashir working at the old Quarantine building and Parmak holding counseling sessions at the Institute as needed.  Sona (now, more accurately, Nurse Hiret) was able to make housecalls while Cidel, newly enlisted as her personal assistant, accompanied her and looked after her child.  

Jil Orra made several short trips each year to meet her father - a word she now said exclusively with distaste - at remote, undisclosed locations.  While she was away, Pazia would stay with us to avoid feeling lonely.  She led Bashir and I into informal discussions of art and literature, then showed us her latest creations.  She had a natural gift for forcing viewers to perceive her work in varying and unusual ways, which Bashir and I agreed was a cornerstone of a successful artist.  When I asked her for help with my own memorial, she was honest about the symbols I should try to convey, and promised to bring me new pieces on her next visit.

But on the days I did not work or meet with Pythas, I generally had the house to myself.  Each day, I added a small segment of embroidery to the tablecloth on our dining table.  It had been there for years, present for many of our important interactions and decisions, and I made sure to take good care of it.  Now I patched its narrow tears and reinforced its seams with Delavian thread of a nearly-identical color.  It was only different in its composition.  

When exposed to the correct conditions, my vendor informed me that the thread would become white.  So I made it into constellations on our standard black tablecloth, and waited the allotted four years to complete my project and expose it to the necessary chemicals.

I did so when we sat down to dinner on our arbitrarily significant fourteenth anniversary.

Despite all dressing for the day individually, and then spending it apart, I was pleased to see we’d all incorporated similar themes.  We all wore the blue makeup - it symbolized unification, after all - and soft, muted tunics to ensure the color stood out.  Parmak had taken the time to click little ornamental gems into place between his scales, and Bashir added several silver studs to his wedding braid.  Most of my effort for the day had gone into taming my hair and setting it in place, a compulsion I had avoided for years.  My goals were to demonstrate my patience and to reach a presentable result, as the others achieved with their jewelry.  

Bashir also acquired chocolates and flame-candles from his latest correspondence with Earth, both of which he displayed for us on the table.  

“What’s that face for, Garak?” he ignited both a candle and one of our playful arguments.

“Nothing, _Doctor_ ,” I said.  “You’ve waited so long already, what’s another moment?”

The increasing warmth, along with the composition of the flames as Bashir finished lighting the candles, was sufficient to induce the reaction of my embroidery.  

It was Parmak who understood first, glancing between my face and the cloth, asking if he could touch it then making a happy sighing sound when I insisted.

“We’ve visited these systems,” he explained to Bashir.

“I know,” Bashir affirmed, when his fingers reached a picture he recognized.  

“How very…” Parmak had to pause and look at me before continuing, “thoughtful, Elim.  Very thoughtful indeed.”

“Thank you, Kelas,” I said, genuinely touched but not at all surprised by the reaction.  “And, may I ask, when is the last time you checked on our Unity Vase?”

His eyes lit up, in anticipation of another thoughtful gesture.  I wondered how much of my progress he could be victim to before becoming truly embarrassed.  

“Not since you moved it to the shed and--”

“Ah, you see,” I said, pleased. “I decided not to take it to the shed after all.  It’s in our room - I’ve ordered a stasis chamber for it.”

He did cry at this, quietly, while Bashir held his shoulder and I held his hand.  

 _I have never in my life expected permanence_ , his tears said.

I nodded and held him tighter.

“My dearest Kelas,” I said softly, “you deserve nothing less.”

When his tears were dry and our meal was complete, we unwrapped the chocolates and placed them gently in each other’s mouths.  Parmak recovered his ability to speak as he chewed his, and announced I needed to go outside to see the gifts he and Bashir arranged for me.  

“I would like nothing more,” I said graciously, standing and pushing my chair in so the armrests tugged at the tablecloth.  The threaded stars glimmered in the shifting light.

First, I was escorted to the shed, with Bashir stumbling along directly behind me, covering my eyes with his hands.  I insisted Parmak take the chair, and I was allowed to open my eyes after I heard him lean his cane against the back of it.  

He presented me with a PADD which contained a single file, and no memory capacity for anything more.  The file was not open or named, so I respectfully remained still and quiet until I was given an explanation.

“It’s the letter Kelas sent me,” Bashir provided, almost immediately after the question occurred to me.

I did not know how to reply, but, unlike Bashir, I did know how to remain quiet.

“I wasn’t sure if you still wondered about it, Elim,” Parmak said, “or if you felt badly about it.  But there’s no need for secrets between us.”

I ran my hand over the inactive screen.

“Thank you,” I said, eventually.  “If you want me to read it, I certainly will.”

“In your own time,” Parmak insisted. “It will be there when you need it.”

I nodded and swallowed audibly.  Bashir reached to touch my forearm, encouraging me to look at him, then leading me back out to the garden when I was ready.

We stopped in front of my unfinished memorial.  I had not even considered making individual ones for my husbands.  Instead - and possibly selfishly - I incorporated facets of their personalities into my own.  I felt this practice also defined my recovery.

Parmak clicked his cane against the nearest pillar, which Cidel had built for me out of bricks.

“Hmm,” he sighed and repeated the motion.  Something stirred.

It was difficult to see in the faint light provided by the Blind Moon, or through the misty fog that sometimes accompanied its rise.  While the glow of my eyes cut through it, my vision did not.

Bashir took in an impatient breath, excited as he always was by a good gift.

“We introduced a family of regnar,” Bashir crammed the words together in a way I would not have understood if we had not been acquainted for so many years.

“They are usually more active in the evenings,” Parmak apologized on their behalf.  “We, well--”

“--wanted me to stop constructing it,” I assumed. “I understand, and I am sorry for how much this must’ve worried you.”

“ _Elim_ ,” Parmak said gently, “you’re more than welcome to finish building a suitable home for the regnar.  They would appreciate your expertise, I’m sure.”

“I understand,” I said again.

He smiled, clapped his hand over my shoulder, and said, “I know you do.”

We laid down in the grass together, heads resting over the soft flowerbeds, to consult the constellations.  The air was cool enough to make the skin of both of my partners feel warm, as they took turns nestling into my arm from the middle of our arrangement, while the other reached across them to draw shapes over my chest.

I made good, consistent, and physical progress on the regnars’ home.  I also made what I considered to be my final step of internal progress (Parmak later enthusiastically agreed) as I began moving the flowers from my headstone inside to our vase, where they could live blissfully in eternal stasis, instead of as symbols for death.  

They were not brought into the world for that.  None of us are.

I learned that each of us exists to follow our fateline until we teach the end of its thread.  

As I continue moving toward my empty spool, I realize there is more to do than contemplate death.  That is not the goal of any life.  Instead, when one reaches their end and is satisfied, they must turn around and wind all of their memories and encounters back into place.  I walk now with the thread constantly burning between my fingertips as it returns eagerly to its place on the spool.  It is my responsibility to oversee its progress, to ensure its gifts do not become tangled or torn.  

But my fateline is strong, reinforced by hundreds of microscopic braids.  I am at the core of it, surrounded by my family, strengthened by all of my small successes, repaired by all of the changes I managed to make within myself, decorated by everything I did to love and serve those who placed their faith and trust in me.  

It fits perfectly back into place.  


	21. Epistles (Epilogue)

I never expected to retire, and instead retroactively considered my time on the station as the most complete break I ever got from working.  For a short time, I was employed as a general Ambassador, but my assignments were too vague to satisfy my years of experience, so I took on additional responsibilities.  I continued providing consultation to our local government officials, reorganizing the record systems at the medical centers, and writing the history of my people.  All of us accepted a variety of jobs, as was necessary in our constantly understaffed environment.  Bashir thought I was bound to overwork myself, and campaigned quietly to change my title.  

As the Federation Cultural Attache, I was encouraged to read and write and _create_ , as a way of sharing our culture with the one I understood second-best, that of the Federation.  I employed Pazia to bring my completed history volumes to life in a range of media, including pottery and illustration.  While she caught up with this, I worked undisturbed on my personal memoir.  

I sat in my own chair in the common area with the sun at my back and two PADDs balancing on my knees.  Parmak and Bashir sat across from me, together on the lounge, indulging in one of their studies of trust and boundary.

Bashir stroked his fingers through Parmak’s hair, Parmak leaning back against his chest and shutting his eyes to demonstrate his commitment to the exercise.  When Bashir was satisfied with his work, he held his hands forward for Parmak to massage, believing with full faith that Parmak would not press too hard with his nails.  I had cut through Bashir’s skin several times before without thinking, and was particularly impressed when Parmak held Bashir’s fingers apart and rolled over the soft flesh between them, relieving tension without hurting him.  

Even though I could have safely participated now, I preferred to watch; I considered their union to be my most significant cultural achievement.  

Parmak patted Bashir’s hands when he was finished with them, and then they exchanged happy sighs.  

“Mmm, Elim,” Bashir said for both of them, “what are you working on?”

One PADD held Parmak’s letter to Bashir from many years ago.  The other was my first draft of a response, for both of them.  At the moment, however, I was neither reading nor writing.

“Nothing, dear.”

Parmak laughed softly, and did not even turn to look at me.

“It _can’t_ still be the guest list,” Bashir continued.  “I told you, it’s only going to be a small dinner, plain and simple.”

“Believe me, Doctor, I know when I’m being lied to.”

Bashir quirked a brow at me, and busied himself with rubbing Parmak’s back, reaching to attend to the arch at the base of it, first.  

“It isn’t _that_ many people,” he sounded like he was trying to convince himself, too.  “Anyway, Cidel said he would cook.”

“It is, I believe, half the district,” Parmak reasoned.

Bashir laughed and attempted to explain himself.

“Cidel, Pazia, Jil Orra,” he listed these by raising a finger for each, before returning his hand to Parmak, “Nurse Sona - sorry, Nurse and Proconsul _Hiret_ \- and their son.  Pythas and Nal… you sent them an invitation, right, Elim?”

“Right,” I said, before listing their three children as well.  I liked watching the glaze appear in Bashir’s eyes, as he tried to keep all the histories and pronunciations and people separate.  

Parmak, meanwhile, was envisioning all of them in our home.  I could tell by the particular smile on his face as he looked around the room, pausing often to imagine each person in their own usual place.

“Castellan Lang,” I added.

“Alon and his family,” said Parmak.  “Doctor Jessel.”

“Then, suppose all the ‘unlikelys’ decide to show up - Kel and Ketay, Chief O’Brien and his family…”

“That is… quite a few,” Bashir relented.  “But it is a special occasion.”

We were arranging a dinner and reception to celebrate Pazia’s latest collection, which would be housed permanently in the Institute’s gallery after completing an offworld tour.  Bashir insisted the event could also commemorate the publication of my memoirs, but I preferred to highlight our child’s achievement.

“Whatever you say, Doctor,” I chided.

“There’s no need to keep calling me ‘Doctor,’” he said, reluctant to join the game, “We’re _married_ ; I’m not your doctor."

“As _the_ resident expert in your culture,” I replied, “I know the title is retained as long as the bearer remains in good standing with the medical community - what have you done this time?”

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Nothing, First Castellan,” he said, copying my strategy exactly. “Are you going to listen to me, this time?”

“Of course, Professor.”

Bashir liked the occasional reminder that he had written a textbook on Cardassian physiology, something he never expected to become an expert on.

“Thank you, Attache.”

I smiled and surrendered the victory to him.

“Now what was it you wanted to say, Julian, my dear?”

“Oh Elim, darling,” he exaggerated his exasperation, “I’ve forgotten.”

I added a few words to my written document.

“Best to write things down,” I said offhandedly.

“The guestlist,” nudged Parmak.

Bashir rewarded Parmak by leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.  Parmak may have conserved his words on purpose, now, knowing Bashir.  

“Oh,” Bashir said again, as the thought returned to him, “I wanted you to know this _is_ a special occasion, and you should be very proud of your memoirs.”

“You’re the only one who’s read them start-to-finish,” I replied.  “And the only one to sign off on them being published and distributed.  It’s a hollow self-indulgence, Julian, but I appreciate your support, as always.”

Parmak nodded in agreement; he was still reading through it, so I could not tell which of us he was agreeing with.  He was improving his grasp on the gestures, but there was much progress left to be made.  I was patient with him, and Bashir usually seemed to understand him regardless.

Bashir pulled Parmak closer against him, until he rested his head against Bashir’s chest, letting Bashir play with the scales on his neck.  He tapped them gently, thoughtfully, as he gathered his words.

“I would never _dream_ of calling it ‘hollow,’ Elim,” he countered.   

“He doesn’t mean it,” Parmak interpreted my mismatched face and tone correctly, as usual.

“Good,” Bashir affirmed.  “I think it’s _brilliant_ , especially the way you managed to subvert the genre and, er, the system itself.”

“Whatever do you mean by that,” I asked, rather blandly.  

“All the repetitive epics you gave me to read before we--” he paused to shrug, rather than summarize our history, “--they were all about the sacrifices citizens had to make for their government, every single one.”

“So they were,” I agreed, determined not to show how much I was enjoying Bashir’s enthusiastic appraisal of my work.  He was never one to give up on me, and, by now, I knew better than to refuse him.

“Yours, though.  It’s the opposite of that, and it’s wonderful!  It’s all the ways the state can benefit its families, all the changes law can make to encourage love.  And that's what everyone needed, in the end, isn't it?”

“Hmm,” I said, as if the comparison had not occurred to me.  

“I’m pleased you’ve finally learned to contradict yourself,” Parmak decided.

“I thought you’d always been that way, darling,” Bashir said, looking at me before he and Parmak looked incredulously at each other, as if they couldn’t believe they’d spent the same amount of time with the same man.

I chuckled, then scrolled through the communique and continued editing my response.

⟡⟡⟡

_To the workstation of Doctor Julian Bashir, CMO - Federation Deep Space 9,_

_From the workstation of Doctor Kelas Parmak, Unit Leader - Med Center 11-8A_

Doctor, 

I apologize for writing you again so suddenly; I recognize you may not have even found time to read my first communication to you.  But the matter is urgent, and my previous letter can be ignored in exchange for this one.

I do not need a reply from you, but I believe my dear friend Elim Garak does, and he deserves one.

It is my own fault, most of his desperation.  In exchange for all the stories he’s told me about you, I told him you would come to visit us in our home on Cardassia.  Of course this would be dangerous and foolish, but also very beneficial not only to Elim, but to many of us who are ill and injured.  Based on what Elim lists as your merits, you should find all of these offers engaging.

I know there is nothing my name or placement can do to convince you.  I do not even know how much attention you pay to our deteriorating situation.  All of it is personified in Elim.

Instead of sleeping, he has waking dreams of you.  He refuses most medications.  He only gathers his strength in order to dig burial sites for the thousands our district has lost.  He is, in every way, a perfect relic of Cardassia.  He longs desperately to change himself, and I feel you are the piece missing from his formula.  

You are welcome to stay with us in our home.  We are not concerned with your reputation within the Federation, only with your famous skill and compassion.  I consider you a friend already.

Elim says, too, that he has sent you a large volume of letters and log entries.  He insists you can ignore these and, instead, write to him as you would on any average day of work.  He is certain, though, that you have already finished reading these, and their details are the reason you will not speak to him.

I doubt any of his messages were unpleasant, but if they have dissuaded you in any way, please understand our desperation.  All of us here are longing for help, for a lasting connection, for a reply that does not degrade what we are feeling.

I find I can provide this to most of our patients.  But not to Elim.  He does not yet believe me, when I say he is anything worthwhile.

Please, Doctor.  I hope this finds you well.  

Our home and hearts are open to you; we will share all that we have.

 _0_ Kelas.

⟡⟡⟡

My Dearest Julian,

I cannot bear the thought of leaving you, but it becomes more likely as each day passes.  

Much of what I want to say about you (and my love for you) can be found in the histories and memoirs I’ve written.  That did not seem enough, however, if I were to suddenly die.  (Be assured I am not in any pain, now; do not worry that you missed a chance to help me, my dear, whenever you read this.  I would hate to burden you with anything unforgivable.  Instead…)

I wanted to be sure I left you something all your own.  Experience has taught me that having a friend, _all your own_ , makes life alone in an alien place infinitely more enjoyable.  More safe, more productive.  I’d expect you to argue that this place is no longer alien to you.  You will say this _is_ your home now.  Without overstating my value, you may find ‘home’ will not have the same meaning in my absence - it is not a place, but people.  I hope this letter preserves the warm and close feelings you have become understandably dependent on during our time together.

After years apart, I was given the invaluable pleasure of rediscovering you.  I have delighted in learning new things about you, and reaffirming my first impressions from our initial meeting.  You are so brave and selfless; I would never want to change a thing about you.  I have learned so much from our shared experiences, and would not trade away any of them.

You should know, also, that Kelas has been provided a strikingly similar letter, as well as instructions for distributing others to the children and my few remaining friends.

Your task is to take our flowers from stasis.  Not all of them - only the ones you wish to leave for me.  I’d like you to secure them together with my wedding braid, please, and leave them in the garden for me, at my memorial, so they may finally begin their intended process of fading and returning to the ground, where they can encourage new growth.  I hope you appreciate the metaphor I am stretching for here, _Doctor_.

Julian.  Of course.  

We have changed many traditions in our time together, the three of us, so I suppose it is fitting for _this_ to exist as my Shri-tal offering to you; I have no other secrets left to give.

It’s been exceedingly difficult to write these drafts - you and Kelas are seated across from me now, holding each other and laughing and begging me to join you.  I know I am always welcome.

I suppose I should close this and go to sit with you, to share in your company while I have it.  

With all of my love, appreciation, and unyielding affection,

Elim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone who has read and shared their thoughts with me - that's made it so much easier for me to be passionate about adding to this piece! Love you!!
> 
> My next project is a history just for Parmak, I hope you'll follow that as well if you're interested. 
> 
> If anything from this inspires you (first I'll be incredibly indebted) but please feel free to write or draw or just talk to me about it. 
> 
> Thanks again!


	22. Cover Images and Printed Copy Info

[](https://ibb.co/dCgRBa)

(Art by Nana Martinez)

If you want a printed copy, I am selling them for $10 which includes the shipping in the US. I'm not making any money off of these; it just covers the printing and cost of sending it out. Please contact me at [my tumblr](http://doctorparmak.tumblr.com/ask) if you'd like one. 

Thank you all for reading and commenting, it means the world to me!

<3 Sally Sorrell


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